


Reunion

by NuMo



Series: Curtains And Masks [6]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: AU, Crossover, Established Relationship, F/F, Post-Canon, Post-Endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:55:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuMo/pseuds/NuMo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I do hope you’re comfortable in the midst of this crowd of strangers.”</p><p>“Oh, perfectly so, Captain,” Picard answers, finding another chair for himself. “In fact, I seem to have found another stranger to keep me company.” He nods to Marie, and the two of them share a smile, Marie’s deliberately mysterious. </p><p>“Mais je ne suis pas étrangère, Jean-Luc,” she says innocently, and Kathryn freezes. No stranger, indeed. First-name basis? After what, ten minutes? What the-</p><p>“Relax, Captain Kathryn,” Marie laughs at her, and Kathryn offers thanksgiving to whatever deity is around that it had been just her first name instead of ‘Captain Coffee Bean’. “We just danced and talked about the wine.”</p><hr/><p>Part Six of the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/18811">"Curtains and Masks"</a> Series. I strongly suggest you read the other five first.</p><p>I don't own Star Trek nor anything connected with it, but I do own my own characters. I'm not making any profit, although I hope to reap some feedback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Push and Shove (May 19th, 2378)

_I think a hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles._

* * *

“Can I help you?” Nechayev’s aide smiles a perfunctory smile at me.

“I’m here to see the admiral,” I tell him with one of my own.

“I’m afraid she’s busy right now, ma’am. Would you care to leave a note?”

“I would care to see her, on _Voyager_ business.” 

He doesn’t move a muscle, I’ll grant him that, but then I guess an admiral’s aide has to be cool-headed enough not to. “I see.” He taps a message into the comm. system, and, in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, I’m in her office – which is huge, and looks out over futuristic buildings under a dull grey sky. You’d never know it was noon if it weren’t for the old-fashioned clock Admiral Nechayev keeps on a shelf. She’s seated not behind a desk, but at the apex of an oval visitor’s table, with two men and two women, uniformed all, to her left and right, all looking quite intrigued at the interruption. Two, I know, from yesterday; a square-headed, long-faced man and a woman with graying red hair. To her left sits a younger blonde, looking at me as flinty-eyed as her neighbor. At least the last member of the round, a rotund man with crow’s feet around his eyes and grey hair and beard, is smiling at me. I hadn’t anticipated this. 

“Miss…”

“Vey, ma’am. Marie Vey. Pleased to meet you.” She doesn’t offer me a seat, and I don’t stand at attention. I did that for another admiral because she deserved it. I don’t know whether they do, yet. 

“Ah, yes. I saw you on the bridge, didn’t I? I trust you recognize Admirals Louvois and Haftel, then.” I nod. “This is Admiral Patterson, and Captain Shelby,” she introduces the other two, Patterson being the grey-beard and Shelby the woman with the coldest eyes I’ve seen in a long while. 

If Admiral Nechayev is trying to intimidate me with pips, though, it’s not working – one, I am civilian, and two, I’m Irreverent Marie Vey, aren’t I? “Pleased to meet you,” I repeat lightly.

“Your timing is good, Miss Vey – we were just discussing how to proceed with _Voyager_ and her crew. I’ll have to say, though, that I’m puzzled what to make of you. _Voyager’s_ crew manifest lists you as counselor, yet-”

“That’s correct, ma’am,” I interrupt her. 

She looks nonplussed, but what can she do? I’m no officer she can order to shut up, and politeness won’t allow her to tell a civilian to shut up, either, not over this. “How did that happen, if I may ask?” she finally goes on. “ _Voyager_ didn’t have an appointed counselor.”

“Which is why they needed one, ma’am. Which is why I applied.” 

“And your credentials…?” I hide my smile. Of course there aren’t any, not really. They’re in my apartment in twenty-first century Cologne of another Earth, after all.

“Convinced the captain and the first officer, ma’am.” I shrug. “They wouldn’t have given me the job otherwise, I suppose.” 

Five faces look at me expectantly, a look which I return with as much of a bland face as I’m able to produce. I don’t intend to say anything else, after all. Nechayev finally huffs, softly, and breaks the silence. “So, Miss Vey, what can we do for you?”

“Well,” I say pleasantly, “I’m here to talk about family.” 

“Family.” Shelby practically spits out the word, causing Nechayev to lift an eyebrow.

“As in family reunion, ma’am, yes.”

“I see,” Haftel smiles slightly.

“Thank you, sir,” I nod to him, then go on, wearing my most professional face. “I mean, we all needed to find our feet yesterday, catch up on sleep and the like, but I’d suggest you set tomorrow aside for the crew meeting their families, or spouses, or close friends. Which would leave today for them to get here.”

Haftel’s smile deepens, and when he raises his hand to hide it, I see a wedding band. “You’ve given this some thought, haven’t you?” Let him patronize me if he wants to. Yes, I’m younger than anyone round this table, by at least a decade if not more, I’d say (not quite sure about Shelby), and a counselor, and a civilian to boot – oh, but I like being underestimated.

“Well, when I talked about readjustment yesterday, I wasn’t just trying to give you a nice word to throw to the press, you see,” I reply. “This crew _has_ gone through a lot. I’ll spare you the psychological vocabulary, but this transition won’t be easy, and it can’t be speeded up with an order.” I pause and look at him levelly. “Sir.” This time it’s Nechayev whose lips twitch. 

“I suppose you mean for the Maquis criminals to be allowed to meet their families as well,” Shelby grates. She’s the major obstacle, then, but help comes from an unexpected direction.

“Come now, Captain, they’ve all agreed to stay put and wait for their trials. There’s no need to keep their families from them, is there?” Patterson, lounging in his chair until now, leans forwards, his elbows on the table.

“Admiral,” Shelby flares up, “need I remind you that-”

“Captain.” Nechayev’s voice cuts through hers. The Ice Queen, Tom’s called her yesterday, a disconnected thought reminds me, but she seems far more approachable than Captain Shelby does. “Miss Vey, we’ll think about your idea.”

“Sure,” I shrug. “I’d ask you to consider two things while you do, though.” 

She tilts her head. “Those being?”

“One – you saw yesterday that these people are one crew. A decision to allow family access only for some of them,” I give her my best, non-judgmental look, my eyes not even flickering towards Shelby, “will probably result in the same predicament we found ourselves in yesterday.”

“I see,” Nechayev replies calmly. No need to mention how this would look to the press at all. Well, she is an admiral, after all, isn’t she. “And two?”

“For reasons of privacy, I ask that an exemption be made for Captain Janeway, allowing her to leave the grounds to see her family at their home.” 

“Oh?” Her brows arch delicately. 

“Of course,” Patterson cuts in. “We understand. Please convey my regards to your captain, and her family, too.” Does he know her, or them, then?

“Admiral-” Shelby raises her voice again, but Patterson stares her down, winning a surprised look from Haftel. I’m not the only one he’s underestimating, perhaps.

“Captain Shelby,” Nechayev interrupts their exchange, with slightly more emphasis on the first two syllables than the first time. The answering look on Shelby’s face is murderous. “The press is screaming for pictures of Janeway and the crew. We had to let them in yesterday, and we’ll have our hands full to keep them away tomorrow if they get wind of crewmen meeting their families. But if they learn that the Janeway family is coming, too, we might have to shoot some of them to keep the rest from storming the grounds. No, Counselor, you’re quite right. Will you go with her?” Such an innocent question, if it weren’t for that glint in her eyes. Testing me, is she? “She might need you at her side.”

I turn a little, to look fully into her face. “I shall make myself available to whoever crewmember needs me most, ma’am. If I may assume the permission entails all of them.”

Shelby almost splutters. “Admiral, I still don’t-”

“Oh, what do you expect to happen, Captain,” Nechayev barks, “miniature transporters baked into cupcakes? No, Counselor, I see your point – if you care to wait outside for a moment, I don’t think it’ll take us all that long to come to a decision on this.” 

“Thank you, Admiral.” I draw myself up and smile at her, at all of them. She looks baffled at the easiness of it, too, for a moment, but that’s nothing against the look on Shelby’s face. Bitten a lemon, has she? 

“Will that be all, Counselor?” Nechayev asks me.

“For the moment, ma’am, yes.” Again, her mouth quirks. “I do have a few comments about the upcoming proceedings, in regard to both the debriefings and the media, but they don’t need to be discussed right away. I can send them to you, if you like?” My question, as my smile before that, encompasses all of them. 

“I’m supervising the debriefings,” she tells me, “and press requests are being handled by Admiral Louvois’ office. I’ll have Commander Ramiri forward you the contacts.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” I repeat. “That would indeed be all, then.” 

“Thank you, Counselor Vey,” Nechayev says primly. I nod and turn to leave, not waiting for a dismissal because I don’t need one.

The orders on the PADD that Commander Ramiri hands me five minutes later allow not only for family access for everyone, but grant free transport on Starfleet vessels for those family members or spouses who might need it. Order number three is a permission to leave Starfleet grounds for thirty-six hours of leave, for Captain Kathryn Janeway plus Counselor Marie Vey if desired; all signed Nechayev, A. N., Admiral. And a personal note, from Theo Patterson, that Gretchen Janeway likes calla lilies.

* * *

The news, wherever Chakotay has gotten it from, goes down incredibly well. Comm. lines are packed instantly, appointments and travel agreements are being made, invitations shared with friends who don’t have loved ones within one day’s worth of travel. Kathryn feels torn between joy for her crew and apprehension how she herself will spend the day tomorrow. Yes, there’s a lot on her agenda, more than ever, in fact, all their preparations in the war council notwithstanding. But Chakotay had looked at her so sternly when he’d told her to take a bit of time for herself that Kathryn just can’t bring herself to contemplate the stack of PADDs on the desk in front of her. The gloomy weather doesn’t help, either. In all her dreams of coming home, rain pounding _Voyager’s_ windows had never played a part.

“Penny?” Marie asks, and Kathryn realizes she’s sighed.

“Oh, just thinking about tomorrow, actually.” 

“Yes! What will we do? Will you show me San Francisco?” 

“We aren’t free to leave the grounds, Marie, you know that.”

“Well, will you show me those, then? When we flew across them yesterday, they did seem incredibly widespread. There was a park, too – we could have a picnic if it doesn’t rain! Oh, or go down to the sea?”

Marie’s exuberance is infectious. Kathryn smiles. “We might.”

“And I don’t feel like cooking tonight, either,” Marie puts the PADD she’d been holding on the coffee table and flops back to the sofa, lounging in one of her goofier postures, quite probably for the sole reason of making Kathryn’s smile linger. It works, too. “Tom said his father said there’s quite a good restaurant at one of the museums.” 

“I don't know if I’m up to company, Marie.”

“Oh, they’re not coming, Kathryn. Not with a newborn baby, right?”

“God, of course. I’m sorry, Marie, I guess my thoughts are a little… jumbled.” Leaning back, Kathryn runs her hands through her hair, closing her eyes. When patient hands start to work her shoulders, they startle her. For all her clumsiness, Marie can move astoundingly silently. And her back rubs… Kathryn sighs again, but differently, and tilts her head forward to give her better access.

“Only to be expected, you know.” There’s a smile in Marie’s voice. “You had a single goal, for all those years. And you ordered your whole life around it, and now you’ve reached it. Small wonder if you feel off balance now.”

“But I haven’t yet, have I. There’s so much still to do, debriefings, trials, technical examinations; hell, Marie,” Kathryn winces when Marie’s fingers find a particularly stubborn knot, “you know the list.”

“What does a soul care about debriefings?” _Voyager’s_ captain snorts softly. “I mean it, Kathryn. You saw the blue marble. You saw the Americas. You saw Golden Gate Bridge, you felt us touching ground. That’s San Francisco rain on the windows, Kathryn. What do your eyes care for debriefings, your ears, your sense of self? Everything tells you you’re home, and asks you: now what?”

“You might be onto something, there.”

One of Marie’s hands pats Kathryn’s shoulder in a passing imitation of her own gesture. “Trust me.” 

“So what do you suggest, then, Counselor?” Kathryn catches both hands in her own and presses a kiss on one.

“Dinner at eight,” there’s a low chuckle in Marie’s voice. “No uniforms, no talk about work, and a walk underneath a starry sky afterwards.” 

Smiling, Kathryn rises and steps around the chair, into the younger woman’s embrace. “I guess I can manage most of that. A starry sky, though – that might be just beyond me, you know.”

“Oh, alright,” Marie sighs. “I’ll bring an umbrella, then.”

~~~

Casual dress, then, and now they’re drawing _looks_. Truth to tell, though, Marie has never looked better, at least in Kathryn’s opinion. Her partner has lost a lot of weight in those horrible weeks after the Friiell incident, and she’s worked to keep it that way. And since, therefore, not a single piece of Marie’s clothing fit any longer, tonight’s clothes are new. Kathryn can see Ellie’s hand in them: grey pantsuit, white blouse – all very understated, of course, but just that bit more elegant than ‘casual’ implies. No jewelry, though. Nose stud and ear stud, that’s all Marie ever wears in terms of adornments, and tonight is no difference. Still she looks gorgeous, more so because she just seems to stop thinking about what she’s wearing the moment she’s put it on.

Not to be outdone, Kathryn has searched the databases for something new, too, finally deciding on a cowl-necked, full-sleeved, creamy white shirt, similar to the one Ellie bought with her in Cologne, centuries ago, the one that Marie liked so much. The slacks that go with it are figure-hugging and dark, smoky grey, nicely contrasting both the color and the cut of the shirt – the look on Marie's face seconds that. Even though Kathryn has been wearing civvies more and more, tonight she is, just as her partner, quite a bit better-dressed than that. And, yes, it’s nice to feel that her figure does deserve to be hugged; and noticing how Marie relishes it gets Kathryn thinking about dressing like this more often. Kathryn’s even chosen higher heels than usual, something that’s drawn a raised eyebrow (followed by the usual expression of pride at finally being able to produce it) when Marie had stepped up next to her and offered Kathryn her arm. 

Oh, they make quite the pair. And… well. Showing off, and being shown off, too, isn’t something Captain Kathryn Janeway usually does. What would she have had to show, anyway, before? Marc had never felt comfortable at formal occasions, and Justin… no, Justin had only known chilly disdain for things like this. And as much as they both had loved Kathryn – neither of them had shown her off like Marie’s doing right now, delighting so obviously in having Kathryn on her arm. And yes, dressing like this, drawing admiring looks of her partner as well as everyone they encounter walking down _Voyager’s_ corridors, has certainly changed Kathryn’s mood. Not even the fact that the lieutenant stationed in the transporter room is a foreign security officer, ordered to perform only approved transports, can change that. 

“Good evening, Lieutenant,” Marie smiles her usual amiable smile at him, trying to get a reaction out of his professional demeanor. “I believe you need these, right?” She hands the PADD and an isolinear chip over, and he’s quick to peruse the former and scan the contents of the latter. That PADD’s probably a go-ahead to leave the ship, Kathryn musingly hypothesizes, grateful that Marie’s thought to acquire it. Off balance, indeed. _Get a grip on yourself, Janeway._

“I’m sorry, ma’am, Captain, but I can’t put you down at those coordinates. I’m under orders-”

“Of course, Mister…” she looks at him expectantly.

“Ardent, ma’am. The chip is okay, by the way.” He hands both chip and PADD back to Marie.

“Splendid, Mister Ardent. Just put us down on the lawn – under _Voyager’s_ nose, if you please, so that I can get that umbrella ready.” Again, she smiles at him, and this time, he responds, a little apologetically. 

“Hadn’t planned it any other way, ma’am.” He relaxes a little, and his expression changes, too. “If I may, I’d suggest taking the main transporter hub, ma’am – it’s quite a ways to Wick’s; you’d get drowned if you’d try to walk.” 

“Oh, will you go easy on those ma’ams, please, Mister Ardent. I’m sure you know my name.” 

She gives him another expectant look, and suddenly he smiles. “I do indeed, Miss Vey.” 

“God, _thank_ you.” They share a conspiratorial grin, and Kathryn marvels at how quickly it came to that. “How long will you be here tonight?” Marie goes on, with just the right mixture of curiosity and solicitousness, apparently.

“Another hour, Miss Vey.”

“Oh, that’s not too bad, hm? Let’s hope you’ll get home dry. Have a good night, Mister Ardent, I daresay we’ll be out later than your closing time. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Monday,” he grins again when he says it.

“Al _right!_ ” She returns it delightedly. “Well, in that case, have a good weekend. I hope you’re spending it with someone nice.”

“I plan to.”

“Tell you what – so do I.” 

Kathryn rolls her eyes. “Good grief, Marie, will you stop it already? Lieutenant, don’t let her monopolize you, we'll be here all night otherwise.”

“ _He_ won’t,” Marie replies, stepping onto the platform. “An hour and then he’s off, remember?”

“No offense, Lieutenant,” Kathryn dead-pans, “but I for one don’t plan to be around for that.”

“None taken, Captain. Have a good night, yourself.”

“I expect we will. Energize.” 

Marie shivers when they rematerialize, then smiles at Kathryn, who remembers that this is the first time the younger woman has consciously experienced the process. An inquiring look is met with a resolute shake of head, and a minute’s brisk, umbrella’d walk brings them, almost dry, to the nearest transport hub. In there, a fresh-faced Bolian ensign glances up, down, and up again, his frown turning into something friendlier, but much more… unwelcome. Being famous might agree with some, but Kathryn really could do without it.

“At ease, Ensign, and don’t mind the lady,” Marie says easily, drawing his eyes. “I’d like to invite you to see this as a... spot check. I want you to take us to these coordinates, and I’m counting on you not to make us run through the rain too much, alright?” 

He glances at the PADD, stops, looks closer. Smiles. “I can put you right on the doorstep, ma’am.” 

“Now that sounds terrific, Mister…”

“Flack, ma’am.”

“You know,” Marie tells Kathryn in a stage whisper, “one day I’ll have to color my hair, just so I don’t drown in ma’ams.” The ensign grins nervously. “Mister Flack, I know it’s not strictly protocol, but I’m sure you and your transporter here can provide me with the item specified on the PADD?” 

He takes another look at it while Kathryn raises an eyebrow. “Of course, Miss. Red or white?”

Marie laughs. “Make it… mmmh… cream. And I’m Marie.” She takes the PADD from him, shaking his hand in the process. 

He blushes a little, which, in a Bolian, means that the color of his face darkens to that of the ridges across his head. “Um, thank you, Marie, but you see, I’m from Rasara, we only have the one name. Feel free to call me Flickey, though.” 

_Flickey Flack? Good grief._ Marie doesn’t bat an eye, though. “Nice to meet you, then, Flickey. Are we ready?”

“We are indeed.” The ensign grins, color back to normal.

“Mysterious and enchanting companion,” Marie turns her irreverent grin towards Kathryn, “do you want to do the honors?”

“Seems I’m good for nothing else tonight,” Kathryn says dryly. “Energize, Ensign.”


	2. Family

“Oh my-” Kathryn’s gasp is the most longed-for sound of tonight. “Marie, you-” then the door opens and she disappears in a tangle of arms.

“You must be Marie,” an amused voice sounds next to me. “I’m Unre, Phoebe’s husband, and these are Naia and Ennin, our kids.” I shift the bunch of flowers to my left arm and we shake hands. He’s a slightly built man, a tad smaller than me and with an almost archaic face framing black eyes that somehow jar with his blond hair and beard, at least at first sight. They’re smiling, though, his eyes are, fond and loving on the scene in front of us. Three Janeways dissolving into a sea of happy tears is something you don’t see every day, I suppose – then again, the night is still young.

“Nice to meet you, Unre. And nice to meet you, too, Naia, Ennin.” The girl looks about six or seven years old, while Ennin can’t be much more than four, if you used human standards. I have no idea whether they apply to kids with a Betazoid parent, though. I look around, taking in the porch on which we’re standing. Good thing, too – it’s pouring, two meters out. Flickey did well. “So this is where Kathryn grew up, is it?” 

“This is where we grew up!”

“ _Wrong_ , Ennin.” It sounds very well-practiced, that long-drawn-out sigh. “We grew up on Betazed first, but you were too small. You don’t remember.” I frown. Hadn’t Betazed been taken by hostile forces a few years ago? Is that why they’re here? Unre’s eyes flick to me. He doesn’t comment, though, but answers his kids’ squabble.

“That’s true, Ennin, but Naia, he’s right, too,” he sounds very used to this kind of bickering, too. “After we came back from Betazed, you grew up here.” 

Naia shrugs, big sister grudgingly granting a point. Then she drops her voice. “Dad, why are they all crying?”

“They’re happy, bird. Sometimes people cry when they’re happy like this.” It’s quite clear that his daughter has trouble believing that. “Remember when we left Betazed and you couldn’t see Senna anymore?” Naia nods solemnly. “And how happy you were when she came here, too?” 

“Yes, but I didn’t cry,” comes the puzzled reply. 

“That’s true, but your aunt’s been away for far longer than a few months, you know. She was so far away, in fact, that it’s taken her longer than your life, just to get back.” 

Phoebe’s hand, reaching out behind, takes our minds off this.

“You think that’s our clue?” I ask Unre with a smile, and he nods and steps forwards. Ennin, though, upset by his mother’s crying as all small children would be, beats him to it, hanging from his mother’s hand in a heartbeat. Unre embracing his wife breaks up the circle of Janeways fighting for composure, and Kathryn turns to me, stretching out her own hand to pull me closer.

“Phoebe, Mom, this is Marie – Marie, this is my mother and my sister.”

“Oh, Katie, she knows that,” Phoebe laughs, “welcome, welcome, Marie. And thanks for bringing my sister.”

“Oh, not for that,” I toss off with a grin before I get hugged. Phoebe is smaller than Kathryn, which I had guessed from our comm. talk this afternoon, but possessed by a rather unexpected strength. I grunt when she finally releases me, only to land in the next set of arms, much more ladylike. My left comes forward, presenting the calla lilies.

“Yes, Marie, welcome! Oh, thank you for these – they’re beautiful!”

“It is my pleasure, Mrs. Janeway.” 

“Oh Marie, you’ve _got_ to be kidding. I’m Gretchen.” I dip my head, properly chastised and ill at ease when I think about actually calling Kathryn’s mother by her given name – for various reasons. “Let’s get these, and you, inside, then.” 

Kathryn, still clinging to my hand, tugs at it to stop me, though, and as soon as the others have passed us by, she tries to outdo her sister in crushing my ribs. I can still feel her tremble, and when I kiss her, at an angle that’s as new as her shoes, her lips are salty. Still, I wouldn’t change a thing about how this evening has developed, so far.

“Marie, this is…” she takes a deep breath of air and leans her forehead against my nose. “ _How?_ ”

I shrug and smile. “Counselor’s duty, isn’t it?”

She takes a good, long, level look at my face and rolls her eyes. “To whizz the captain away to her family.” She sounds deeply skeptical, and the fact that my only answer is another smile doesn’t help. Phoebe saves me, looking out to see where we are and motioning us inside.

“Look at the two of you,” Gretchen exclaims when we enter the hall, “color coordinated! You look good, Kathryn, if a little… tired, maybe? I guess you’re exhausted, right? So, no more talk of this. Tonight’s order – not a word about work. I hope you’ll be okay with that, Marie?”

“I’m okay with everything if there’s dinner involved.” I can smell it from here, and I’m famished. “It smells fantastic.”

“That’s how I like ‘em,” Gretchen Janeway laughs. “Hungry and flattering. Come in, come in!”

~~~

Dinner is indeed delicious, and far more than five grown-ups and two kids could possibly manage.

“Thanks, Marie.” Gretchen waves her fork around all the good stuff on the table, “I never could have fixed this in time if you hadn’t called ahead. Oh, Katie dear, don’t stare like that. Of course she did! She’s learned the first rule of how to handle a Janeway already: surprise them, conspire with others if necessary. They’re far too stubborn otherwise, or pre-occupied, or just glued to their chair, aren’t they, Marie?” 

She winks at me, and I hold up my hands. “There are _so_ many reasons why I shouldn’t answer this, you know.” Gretchen and Phoebe are indeed quicker, far quicker to laugh than Kathryn is. Kathryn, meanwhile, hasn’t withdrawn her knee when I touched it with my own; she’s no longer trembling, but far from relaxed, either. When her mother brings out sumptuous, warm brownies for dessert, Kathryn only pokes hers around the plate. I touch her hand, the one that’s not busy picking the soft goodness into tiny crumbs, and she looks up at me, startled, then replies with a shaky smile to the amused spark in my eyes and starts eating. 

After dinner, Unre takes the kids to bed. God, but what wouldn’t I give to join them. Kathryn is far more capable of operating on little sleep than I am, and she has coffee to help, courtesy of her mother’s. The living room is even more comfortable than the large eat-in kitchen, and there’s a hearth and fire that defies the torrential rain outside. Oh, this will be a fight against droopy eyelids and no mistake.

“You do have to tell us, now, how you met, you know,” Gretchen Janeway’s eyes are afire with curiosity.

“Yeah, Katie, how on Earth did you fall in love with a woman?”

I take pity on my love, who clearly searches for a way to start this right. I can help her there, at least. “It was a dark and rainy night…” I begin, mugging for all I’m worth, winning laughter. 

“Like tonight?” Phoebe asks, eyes alight.

“Worse,” Kathryn says with a shudder. “Thunderstorm. A bad one, too.”

“Hell yes,” I second her; “I’ve never experienced anything like it before. I was running through it, barely seeing a thing because my glasses were so wet-”

“I’ve been wondering about them,” Phoebe throws in. Nothing new there, they get second and third glances almost everywhere I turn up, and I haven’t seen anybody else in glasses, either.

“I’m myopic,” I explain. “And where I come from, we don’t have the medical technology to cure that the way you do.” 

“Well, where do you come from, then?” Phoebe is actually fidgeting with curiosity. 

I cock my head, dead-pan. “I _was_ getting there, you know.” Then I grin to pull the fangs of that. “So,” I go on, “I reached this little shelter, and there she was – drenched, like me, but freezing, and hurt, and lost.” I look at Kathryn expectantly and she picks up the thread.

As interesting as it is to listen to her side of the story, it’s still far more entrancing to watch her speak, tired as I am. Unre, from his easy chair, catches my eye and smiles, a sparkle in his jet-black gaze. Telepathic and empathic, Betazoids are, I’d read, and immediately started wondering how to behave when meeting Kathryn’s brother-in-law. My solution makes him laugh quietly: I crank my love up as far as I can, just because. Hell, I might as well, it’s not as if I want to hide a single smidgeon of what I feel for her. No one except him and me takes notice, anyway.

“She what?!” Phoebe’s outburst interrupts our silent interlude. Then she turns to me, looking, yes, flabbergasted. “You kissed her?” 

“Surprise move,” I shrug again; “I’ve heard they work well with Janeways. It did, that day.” Phoebe shakes with laughter; Kathryn blushes. Then Phoebe takes a look at Unre’s face, and her laughter turns saucy, and Kathryn blushes even harder. Well, I can’t help where my thoughts are going, and it seems she can’t either.

“I never thought I’d see the day, sister mine.”

Kathryn’s hands come up plaintively. “Oh Phoebe, spare me, please. We’ve been there, after all. Repeatedly.” 

“Not in person, we haven’t. This is too good to let pass.”

“You’re enjoying yourself, are you? You’ll be milking this for all it’s worth.”

“But of course I will,” she gives back amiably, “it’s what little sisters are supposed to do. So tell me, is she a good kis-”

“Be nice, Phoebe,” Gretchen reaches across Kathryn’s and my legs to swat her younger daughter’s knee while I chortle at the look that crosses my Kathryn’s face. Oh, sibling dynamics are precious. “Please, the two of you, go on with your story – now we know how you met, but I still don’t understand where you were.” 

Kathryn starts with that part of our story, and I get up to get my bag and, with it, my purse; I know we’ll need it in a few moments, and indeed, I come back to stunned stares.

“ _Earth?!_ ”

Wordlessly, I reach out my ID to Kathryn’s mother. She hands it to Unre, next, and it’s he who gets my year of birth and its meaning. He chuckles when he passes it on to his wife, but doesn’t make a mention of it.

“Nineteen seventy-nine?” Phoebe goggles. 

I grin. “I guess I don’t look my age, then?” Eyes roll all around, and when I look contrite for my fishing, Phoebe’s shoulder jams into my side, still or again shaking with laughter. Then Kathryn relates how Q turned up in my bedroom – for all that he changed my life like he has, I’ve never seen him, I realize suddenly – and how, after a few blissfully happy weeks, he took her back to _Voyager_.

“Without Marie? But then-”

“Hush, love, they’re getting there.” Kathryn smirks a ‘thank you’ at Unre and goes on. I put in a few remarks of my own from time to time, but really, this is Kathryn’s story, and when she comes to her second visit, I take the picture frame out of my bag, content to illustrate her account, stifling a yawn.

“So you went ski-” then Phoebe stops short. Goggles again. “Kathryn, is that a hoverbike?” 

Kathryn’s answering smile is dangerous, at least to my disposition. “Wrong century, Pheebs. Motorbike. Wheels, and gears, and all.”

“This is so incredible,” her sister breathes, passing the photo frame to her husband. “I mean, here you always bitched and moaned that Mom cooked on a stove, that Dad took us to the wilderness, and then you go and land someone from the twentieth century.” 

“Phoebe, she even did the dishes,” I confide around another yawn, and Gretchen claps her hands while Phoebe, much more unladylike, hoots, head thrown back.

“Laundry, too.” Kathryn sounds miffed, then joins our laughter. 

“Good grief, sister mine, that must have been an ordeal and no mistake.”

“Ach, no, she carried herself well,” I wave that concern away. “As long as she didn’t go near those pots and pans when I was cooking – we made a good team, didn’t we?”

“We did indeed.” Kathryn’s smile dazzles me. 

“Oh, I agree,” Unre chimes up, eyes fixed on movement on the little screen in his lap, then turning it around for all to see.

Kathryn groans when she sees the video of the two of us, one behind the other, skating with interlocked skies. “You left that?”

“Kathryn, love,” I croon, “it’s not holiday pictures when there isn’t at least one you’d rather people didn’t see.”

“True, that,” Phoebe nods. “The things I have to put up with from certain quarters…” she throws a pointed look at her husband, and we laugh again. Really, I like this family’s sense of humor.

“So,” Unre goes on, “you skied, and you drove a motorbike – what else did you do? Sounds like you had great fun.” 

It doesn’t need an empath to sense how both Kathryn and I tense. We went sailing next, after all. Kathryn’s hand never leaves mine when she tells that bit.

“God, Marie – I can’t imagine how terrible that must have been for you,” Gretchen breathes. “You really liked your friend very much, didn’t you?” 

Well, at least at that, I can smile. “I still do.” And thinking about why I can still do feels me with wonder, as it always does. “We’ll get to that, in a bit… um, Gretchen.” No way around it. I can’t, _can’t_ , pronounce it the way she’s introduced herself. No, Gretchen is… Gretchen. A German name. Faust’s love, my great-aunt’s nickname, and – well, I can’t. 

“That’s sweet,” Gretchen Janeway smiles when I explain. “That’s really sweet. I’ve noticed that you still have a bit of an accent, and I think it’s completely charming how you say my name.”

“You do?” Well, that is reassuring. I suppose I could have made myself pronounce it the way they do, but…

“Good thing, eh?” Unre grins at me. “That’s two of them.” I return his grin while Kathryn blushes again. Really, it’s only family who can do that, right? Again, I yawn behind my hand, and when Kathryn picks up our tale again, recounting how we went to Venice, I can’t help my eyes drooping shut.

* * *

Marie’s head on her shoulder threatens to make her cry again. Truth to tell, though, everything about tonight has done so. Devious woman, springing this on her; and yet how can Kathryn be mad at her when she’s in the living room of the house she grew up in, when the fragrance of caramel and coffee was so breathtakingly familiar that her eyes stung, when she finally feels _home_? Eyes, ears, sense of self. Soul. Oh, Marie knew what she was talking about, true enough. This _is_ homecoming. 

“Marie.” Phoebe reaches around Kathryn to shake the younger woman’s shoulder, and for a second, a long-forgotten but still familiar resentment flares up in Kathryn’s heart. She’s about to growl at her sister to leave Marie be when the sleep-blurred sound of her lover’s voice drowns that impulse with a different wave of solicitousness.

“Hm?” Marie looks up, then straightens. “Oh. Sorry. Is it-” her voice drops away when Kathryn’s sister nods. Marie’s eyes clear instantly, and fly to meet Kathryn’s. 

“We’d thought we’d let you do the honors, you know,” Phoebe comments teasingly, “since you brought her here.”

Marie’s eyes flick over to her with a grateful smile, but return to Kathryn’s face immediately. So intent, so full of love, that Kathryn frowns. Now what? Honors? And shouldn’t they be leaving, seeing how tired Marie is? She’s floored, though, when Marie begins to sing the birthday song, so softly, looking at her all the while with that look in her eyes. It can’t be – is it really? Tears overflow again when her mother and sister and brother-in-law join in, and Marie smiles around the lyrics, catches Kathryn’s face in her hands and kisses them away.

“Don’t tell me you forgot your own birthday,” Marie laughs when the song finally ends. By the look on Phoebe’s face, Marie’s beaten her to these words by mere fractions of seconds, too. “Kathryn, love, you work too hard.”

“Definitely,” her mother laughs, reaching over her younger daughter to embrace her eldest. “Happy, happy birthday, my dear Kathryn. Such good timing!”

“Yes, happy birthday, sister mine!” When has Phoebe gotten so strong? Still, being hugged is better than being teased.

“Happy birthday, Kathryn, and many happy returns,” Unre hugs her, too, then, withdrawing, adds, “although I guess not a single one will be as happy as this, right?”

She smiles at him, and really, she is trying to stem that flood, but what can she do? She’s being hugged, she’s being loved, she’s home and it’s her birthday, and…

“Let go, love,” Marie murmurs, her arms so familiar around Kathryn’s shoulders, promise and offer and pillar and- “let go.” She does.


	3. Home (May 20th)

I have no idea when Kathryn came to bed last night. After singing to her and holding her and telling her we don’t need to return until eight a.m. tomorrow, and San Francisco’s eight a.m. at that, I had tried to rouse myself once more and not to give in to sleep too quickly, to little avail. The small sounds of a burned-down fire and of rain outside and of soft conversation around me, the scent of Kathryn’s hair in my nose – all of that had lulled me irresistibly. Unre had caught my eye after a while, made our excuses, and shown me to the bedroom. Not even learning that it used to be Kathryn’s had helped me keep awake; I’d been dead to the world as soon as my head had hit the pillow. 

She’s lying next to me now, almost on her stomach, arm and leg across me quite possessively. It must have been quite late, or rather, early. I can count the times she slept through my waking on the fingers of one hand, I guess, and it never ceases to amaze me how she’ll sleep so soundly all night (when she does find sleep) and then wake up from the slightest of my movements in the morning. She can go from deeply asleep to full thrusters in a single heartbeat, too, at least if there are red lights glowing in the wall.

Well, not this morning. I watch her face for a while, just for the novelty and joy of it. There are shadows under her eyes, and my fingers long to smooth them, my lips to kiss them away, but the magic of seeing her sleep is stronger. She looks so vulnerable, and yet I know what she’s capable of, my lioness. My sweet, stubborn, exhausted starship captain. My Kathryn. My love. God, but the next weeks will be hard on her. And giving her today is all I can do, in terms of regeneration. Am I ever glad I got the go-ahead for it, and to hell with Shelby possibly feeling aggravated. My stomach makes itself felt, suddenly, and I ease out from under her limbs, careful not to wake her. I shake my head, though, when I return from the en-suite bathroom (the luxury – a later, guest-room addition, or a smart move of parents of two teenaged daughters?), drying my hands, and she’s still deeply under. Really, it must have been late.

Her room is pleasant, as is the weather – I see as much when I poke my nose through the curtains. The rain has stopped and the sun’s out, and right on the window, too. Good thing I closed those curtains, yesterday night. Still, it’s light enough in here to take a closer look around – clear-lined, blond wood furniture, cream walls and upholstery set off by a few prominent colors (curtains in dark green, a deep red cushion, a brown throw across the foot of the bed), childhood pictures on the wall. They wake a pang, seeing how I have only a handful of myself left on my laptop, purely by chance because I scanned them, once upon a time. Still, recognizing my Kathryn as a child and teenager is sweet. 

There’s one of little Kathryn in a tutu, an adorable look of intense concentration on her face. She can’t be much more than five, six at most, but the will is already there. Then my gaze falls on pictures of her in sports dress, in motion or beaming at assorted trophies; they span a few years of gawkiness, but, again, the promise of poise, of drive, of grace – the promise of the woman to come, is visible. A picture of her and two men in uniform, standing in front of an old-fashioned looking shuttle – I can identify Kathryn’s father at once. It confirms my feeling, the same way that yesterday night confirmed my thoughts about her sister: It’s Phoebe who looks like her dad; Kathryn does get her looks and her mannerisms from her mother. Except for that seriousness. 

Gretchen Janeway is quick to laugh, as is her younger daughter, but Kathryn – in every class picture on the wall, I can single her out easily, simply by the earnest, determined look on her face. Lastly, a family picture of, quite obviously, a camping trip, complete with two very evidently glowering teenaged girls makes me swallow a laugh, and swallowing makes my stomach rumble again, so I decide to go and find breakfast. Stepping out of the room and onto the stairs, I see two curly-haired heads disappear quickly, a story higher, and reverse course – not down, but up.

“You hungry?” I ask Ennin and Naia when I reach the top, and they both nod, solemnly. “Will you show me how to make breakfast then?” Naia is quicker to grasp the possibilities inherent – her nod is enthusiastic. “Whoa – easy,” I catch them when they start running past me for the stairs, “your parents are still asleep, aren’t they? Let’s not wake them.” 

The kitchen is fully equipped, with fixtures both very familiar (a gas stove and oven, a sink) and newly familiar to me (a replicator, the twenty-fourth century equivalent of a dishwasher, and a fridge, or rather ‘stasis/storage unit’ – don’t ask about the look on my face when Gretchen Janeway asked me to put the remnants of the brownies in ‘the stu’). And even though I asked before we came here, I’m glad to see the input slot for isolinear chips on the replicator with my own eyes – I brought some very cherished formulas, after all, and I’d have been loath to start the day without my kind of breakfast, even if Kathryn, in all probability, wouldn’t mind having her mother’s coffee again instead of her usual morning blend.

“What do you have for breakfast?” Naia asks me when I take out the chip. So she knows how this works, does she?

“Bread and chocolate.” Both sets of eyes light up at my reply. My offer to try is met with more enthusiasm, so I replicate a double portion, shared on three plates. We’re just sitting down when Unre walks in, barefoot, pajama-clad, and quite disheveled. 

“Morning, my birds,” he mumbles, then does a double take at seeing what’s on their plates. Looking up at me, he smiles lopsidedly. “Good morning, Marie. Your choice of breakfast, then?”

“We’re having chocolate, Dad!” Ennin calls out joyfully and with a smudgy mouth, and Unre winces when he steps up to the replicator to order coffee. He’s good-looking, even without the benefit of morning grooming – in fact, I’d say the way his face is more rugged like this only adds to his looks. He’s got strong brows over deep-set eyes, but the crinkles at their edges belie this fearsomeness, and I know by now how quickly he laughs, and how startlingly exuberant, too. He catches my eye and grins, apparently taking my line of thoughts as compliment.

I grin back in affirmation, then look at his cup pointedly. “Coincidence or infection?”

“Wh- oh.” He looks down, too, at the cup in his left, runs his right over his face. “The latter, I suppose. Coffee is a fixture in this household.” Then he looks at mine, full of milk as it is, and smirks. “They’ll get you, too.”

“I doubt it,” I drawl with a grin. “I can be just as stubborn as Kathryn is, and she knows not to mess with my breakfast.”

“Don’t touch mine and I won’t touch yours?” He smiles when he sits down next to his son and steals a slice, then opens his eyes wide at the first bite. 

“Good?” My eyes sparkle as I take a bite of my own. His kids like it, that much is plain, anyway.

“By the Four Deities,” he gasps, “what a sugar bomb. We won’t have our quiet this morning, that’s for sure.”

“God, I’m sorry – do you-” I hadn’t even asked for allergies, either. 

“Don’t worry, Marie,” he waves my concern away, then smirks again. “After all, I can hand them over to you to keep them occupied, can’t I?”

“Fair’s fair,” I reply solemnly. “Phoebe still asleep?”

“Oh, yes. She came in around four or so. I expect they’ll all sleep for a while yet, I mean, it’s barely nine.” He rubs his face again, stifling a yawn. 

“Can we go outside, Dad?” Ennin, through with breakfast, pipes up. “It’s not raining,” he adds earnestly.

“Why don’t we go for a walk, and you can show Marie around the place?” Oh, Unre’s smile is devious, and my returning one so very, very sweet – still, it’s a good idea for various reasons, not the least being that being outside, in real air, real sunshine, does have its appeals. And Naia and Ennin are sweet. They fool around in the garden while Unre and I shower and get dressed – there’s a bathroom on every story, and a good thing, too. Taking a look at the boots he’s bringing down for the kids, though, I’m stymied for a moment. I have a lot of patterns on that chip besides breakfast; nightclothes, toiletries, a number of changes of clothes, even Kathryn’s uniform, just in case, but I hadn’t thought to include boots suitable for a walk after a full night of rain. Unre quickly offers to find me some – turns out we’ve got the same size, so I take a pair of his; quickest solution all round.

We set off into brilliant sunshine and a thousand sparkling diamonds. On the far horizon, Prussian blue clouds still look threatening, but Unre assures me they’re yesterday’s weather, not today’s, and I turn my face into this Earth’s sun eagerly.

* * *

“Mom, Mommy! Mom! We saw padpoles!” The small kid races towards Phoebe and slams into her outstretched arms.

“Tadpoles, Ennin,” Naia rolls her eyes, her exasperation and dignified restraint from running something Kathryn recognizes very well. It still stuns her that Naia’s middle name is her own, something Phoebe’s owned up to, yesterday, after a lot of wine and just as much crying. Naia Kathryn Janeway Arnis. A bit bumpy, but that’s not the main concern. Alright, so she’d been lost and presumed dead, but still, hearing that her little sister… she has to shake the thought away or she’ll tear up again.

“That’s great – I hope you didn’t bring any, though,” Phoebe, meanwhile, replies with a smirk. 

“And we climbed a tree, and we saw the swamps and their babies!” 

“You did.” Phoebe throws a dark glance at her husband and he, in turn, raises innocent hands, then throws a thumb at Marie, whose grin rivals Ennin’s for excitement.

“Oh, it was a perfect tree for climbing, Phoebe, and they didn’t go up all that far.”

“I was taller than Daddy,” Ennin squeals, and Marie looks skywards.

“Get me in trouble, why don’t you,” she sighs, and Kathryn swallows a laugh.

Unre has at least the grace to try and defend her. “Honey, don’t worry, she was right up there with them.” 

“You were.” Kathryn’s turn now for a dire look, though, truth to tell, she’s amused rather than angry. 

Marie shrugs. “I can climb trees with the best of them. And Ennin wasn’t in danger at any moment. And neither was Naia, nor, just in case you were worrying, Katie dear, was I. _And_ we could safely see the swan’s nest from up there, too, so hold that glare, Captain Coffee Bean.”

“Mom, can we have lunch? I’m hungry!” Naia cares nothing for this bit of adult conversation, apparently, nor for the sudden change in the grown-ups’ faces. 

“Me, too!” Ennin’s head bobs up and down wildly, then they both tear off towards the kitchen.

“Captain Coffee Bean?” Phoebe finally whoops. “Naia, Ennin – _Ennin_ , I’ll…” she heads back to the house, husband in tow. 

“You know, I don’t think I approve of your choice of words,” Kathryn grates, then laughs and pulls Marie close to hug her. She’s far too happy and the day far too sunny to stay angry for long, and she hasn’t even really been angry, at that. 

Waking up alone, and in her old bedroom to boot, had made her dizzy for a moment. Then memories returned, a few tears in tow. When she’d found her way to the kitchen, donning an old, faded robe of Phoebe’s she’d found in her cupboard for some reason, she’d been presented with a cup of coffee and a small, hand-written note of Marie’s, explaining where she, Unre and the kids were, and wishing the three of them a beautiful carefree family reunion birthday Saturday morning. Then her mother had wished her the same, hugging her close. Kathryn had managed not to cry, even if it had been a close thing. 

The memory wakes a glare, for herself, and Marie chuckles. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“Three hours in the presence of a Betazoid and you’re a telepath?” Kathryn raises an eyebrow.

Arms still securely around her, Marie looks down with a loving smile. “I’ve told you I can read your face, haven’t I? I mean, you laugh and lean into me, relaxed as you please, and then I can see your mind turn elsewhere – doesn’t take a scientist to figure out where, either. And then you sigh, from the bottom of your heart, and then you tense right up – so.”

“I can’t be crying all the time, Marie,” Kathryn growls.

“I agree. You’d dehydrate.” Marie takes a look at Kathryn’s face and sighs. “Kathryn, you’ve put parts of yourself away for seven years, you’ve bottled up everything that came your way-” Kathryn takes a breath to interrupt and Marie kisses her, quickly, softly, completely derailing her train of thoughts. “I’m not saying that’s wrong, love. Quite the contrary; I agree it was the only way to do it. I just want you to understand that it won’t be easy to let go of all that. Being quick to cry, or at sixes and sevens, irritated or angry for no apparent reason – it’s all part of that.” She grins, suddenly. “You better brace yourself. I know I have.”

The eyebrow comes up again. “And try not to be too hard on myself?”

“That, too.” Again, Marie’s kiss is gentle, reassuring, and Kathryn finds herself clenching her hands around her lover’s shoulders. “Listen. Kathryn. It’s possible that you’ll experience quite a bit of this over the next days or weeks. Not a certainty, not at all, but possible. And I really think it would be a good thing if you knew about it beforehand, so that you can watch out.”

“What exactly are we talking about here?” Marie sounds serious enough to worry Kathryn, and somehow, Kathryn finds herself resenting it.

“Symptoms,” Marie says quietly. “They might crop up, they might not. But if they do, I figure that if you know that they’re not unexpected, you won’t be so apprehensive of them.” 

“Apprehensive.”

“Well, you don’t like that you’re so prone to tears right now, right?” Marie barely waits for Kathryn’s nod. “How about nightmares? Flashbacks?”

“Good grief, Marie-”

“I’m not saying that’s going to happen, Kathryn. But it might. As I said, it wouldn’t be unexpected. And you did have nightmares before.”

“Well, so did you.”

Marie smiles, a quick flash that’s gone as soon as it came. “Of course I did. Plenty of reason for them, and it doesn’t even take a reason for a nightmare to happen. And you held me, and helped me, and let me hold you when you had nightmares. And I know there were nights when you didn’t turn to me to be held, just as I know there were nights where you didn’t even come to bed for fear of what sleep, or sleeplessness, might have in store for you.”

It’s getting hard to breathe. “You…” _Why is she so perceptive? And why do I feel like running, goddamnit?_

“Everyone takes their own way through things like that. And I liked that your way took you to me often enough.” Again, a lightning smile. “It’s just that sometimes, there’s a danger of being caught in it, and then it’s not a way through, but running in circles. And that’s what I want you to look out for.”

“Look out? For what?”

“Symptoms of trauma.” Marie’s voice is soft as her eyes, and just as relentless, and Kathryn bristles at both. It had been part of the curriculum in order to help commanding officers recognize traumata in crewmembers, but-

“I’m not suffering from trauma, Marie. That’s ridi-”

“I’m not saying that, Kathryn.” Marie interrupts her, smiling at Kathryn’s frown. “I’m just saying there are symptoms, and that forewarned is forearmed. A… what was the word? A heads-up. If you want to, go and read up on it – the principles behind this have been known for a while, there should be lots of literature.”

 _How does she know I’m like that?_ “I did that before, you know.” Leaning her forehead against Marie’s nose is so familiar, as is the feel of steady arms holding her, pillars of strength to how lightheaded Kathryn feels.

“Researched psychological trauma?” She can hear Marie’s raised eyebrows.

“Researched…” she swallows. _Best speed ahead, Janeway_. “Clinical depression.”

Those arms never waver, even if the rhythm of Marie’s breathing changes, becomes slower. _She knew_ , part of Kathryn’s mind marvels. _Of course she would_ , another responds, _she’s a counselor, and you_ have _as good as told her, on numerous occasions_. Then Marie’s nose nudges Kathryn’s forehead, bidding her look up. Chocolate-colored eyes, patient and gentle, meet her own, take in her insecurity, her apprehension, and return nothing but love. “Sensible,” Marie says finally, the familiar spark back in her eyes. “Know your enemy, hm?”

“I didn’t understand what was happening to me,” it’s too soft to be a wail, but it’s close, too damn close.

“And do you understand what’s happening now?” Marie asks instantly.

“No,” Kathryn’s reply comes just as quick. “No! I don’t know how I’ll react from one minute to the next, the silliest things make me cry, and I…” She exhales explosively. “This is the worst rollercoaster I’ve ever been on, honestly, Marie. But I’m _not_ trau-”

Two soft kisses, one for each cheek, stop her. “You’re doing fine, Kathryn.”

“I’m not. I’m crying again.” And deeply resenting it, too, _and_ Marie’s chuckle.

“But that’s exactly what I mean. You’re not hiding, nor pushing this away. Really, I would worry if you did, here, at home, but you don’t, and that’s good.” Marie pauses and, when Kathryn refuses to look at her, catches her jaw in one hand. “Kathryn.” She smiles when, against better judgment and with two new tears falling from their corners, Kathryn grudgingly opens her eyes. “This isn’t going to be easy, but you’ll do it; trust me on this, at least until you’ve found the time to do research, yourself.” That sparkle appears again. “And you won’t be alone. Lots of pillars of strength around to lend support if you need it, lots of people who won’t quake in their boots or wet their pants when they see the great Captain Janeway lose it.”

“Oh, very well put, Counselor.” Then Kathryn realizes something. “Is that why you went for a walk with the kids and Unre? So that they don’t see me lose it?”

Marie slips her arm back around Kathryn’s waist and raises her head to laugh. “Holy carthorse, Kathryn – _no_. No, it’s exactly the other way round. I didn’t want you to hold back for their sakes.” Her voice is still merry when she looks back down, even though her eyes radiate love once more. “Did you? Lose it, I mean?”

“I guess so,” Kathryn grates. “I cried over Mom’s pancakes; I think that qualifies.”

“I’ll say.” So easy to relax into those eyes. To trust them. To let their confidence be her confidence for a while. “Yes, love,” Marie affirms gently. 

It takes a few moments to register on Kathryn that she has no idea… “‘Yes’, what?”

“Just yes. To… things.” A hand waves vaguely, lips turn up slightly. “You know.”

“To pain?”

“To life.” And just why does her throat constrict again, the stupid thing, at those words, soft as they are? “Wait a moment, will you? I’ll be right back.”

* * *

It takes a little more than a moment, but finally, we’re off, picnic provisions and other necessities in a bag slung over my shoulders. At least Kathryn isn’t fighting the idea of trauma anymore – or doesn’t seem to be. I’ve no idea whether my words have reached her, but… well. She’s heard them, and she’ll remember them. Still I debate whether to tell her that depression is another symptom. Yes, I had guessed as much, from what she’d told me about the death of her father and fiancé, and what had happened afterwards. And I know that depression is hardest to diagnose in oneself – harder than nightmares or flashbacks, at any rate. Ah well. I’m there to look out for that, aren’t I?

“I’ve seen a spot that would be perfect,” I say, taking Kathryn’s hand to turn her off the main road. 

“The meadow with the elm?” she asks back, and I laugh.

“Don’t know about elms, but that place had lilac, and they’re blooming, Kathryn.” And I’ve always loved lilac. I mean, I would have been happy to return to Earth in any season, but late May? Lilac in bloom? Oh, the good life.

She frowns slightly. “Lilac?” Then her eyes light up, “oh, you’re probably thinking about the dip behind Anderson farm. Yes, that’s a good spot.” And just like that, it’s she who leads, and how would it be any other way? I smile to myself, following her through the places where she spent her childhood, and yes, we end up in the place I’d meant. The scent of lilac is in my nose as we walk across the meadow, and when we find a place to sit, its white and mauve blossoms fill the sky above us. So full of summer’s promise, that scent is, like the one of strawberries in that aspect. So full of the exuberance of a plant that has but a month, if that, to bloom. So evoking of memories. I spread out the picnic blanket, impermeable side down against the remnants of yesterday’s rain, humming, finally breaking out in song.

“See the little angels rise up-” Kathryn, in the very process of settling down onto the blanket, stops dead at my words, and I remember she read some of those books. That one, too, apparently. Which is good, because it’s one of the best, but also worrying, because… well. Sometimes I see a certain commander in my captain. After what must be an immeasurably uncomfortable moment, she unfreezes and sinks down the rest of the way. “I’m sorry,” I tell her.

“Don’t be. It’s a good book. I liked it.” I try to keep the question burning inside me out of my eyes, but she sees, nevertheless. “Too close for comfort,” she sighs after a while, and tells me her side of an incident I’ve read about in _Voyager’s_ logs, and now I finally understand the few bits of it that weren’t classified. And hold Lessing, who for all his nightmares never breathed a bad word about his new captain, in much higher regard than before. No, he doesn’t need to blame her – she does, and extensively. And cries again, leaning into my arms beneath the sweetly blooming lilac while I wonder how to help her get through the next weeks.

She sits up and dashes her fingers across her cheeks, two quick, impatient motions, and raises an eyebrow when I wordlessly hold out a box of tissues. 

“Picnic provisions, modified to the occasion. You did say you cried at the drop of a hat,” I explain and take heart from how her mouth quirks, “and that wasn’t a hat, that was a goddamn photon torpedo right to the gut. I’m sorry for bringing it up, Kathryn.” Her hand, clenched around a balled-up tissue, waves about in dismissal, and I catch it. Kiss it, at the point where her thumb meets her wrist. “I meant what I said earlier, you know. The next weeks, or however long it’ll take, are going to put a lot of pressure on you, and I wanted to give you a breather, not remind you of painful things. I am sorry, love.”

She sighs, transferring the tissue to her free hand to take mine more firmly, and wraps that arm around her knees. She does smile when, to lighten the mood, I sing her of a place that’s quiet, except for daisies running riot, and no one passing by it, and ask her to spend a lazy afternoon with me. 

Then a cloud crosses over her face once more. “I never anticipated this.”

“Hm?”

“This… The crying. The confusion. Sometimes I feel like a goddamn first-year cadet, not a captain.” Her voice is grating, and I flick my thumb across her knuckles. “I’ve stared down the Borg. I thought I was stronger than this.”

“This isn’t a strength issue. Crying isn’t weakness.” Her gaze is level. I guess she might even agree on a rational, intellectual level, but that’s not where this is at, after all. “On the contrary – to hide from the emotional backlash, _that_ would be weak.”

She smirks. “How can I, when you drop me into the middle of it like you did?”

“Granted,” I grin easily. “Counselor’s duty, as I said.”

“Doesn’t the rest of my crew need your attention, too?”

“Triage.” My voice, so very gentle, throws her off balance. It’s not a quip. Most certainly not. It’s the honest truth – no one, not a single crewmember, needs me more than she does, now, no matter how truthfully I’ve said I wouldn’t be her counselor. Even if I didn’t love her, even if my triage were based solely on my observations of the last months, this much would be obvious. “Remember,” I go on lightly, “how frightened I was when I arrived on _Voyager_ and learned that we had antimatter on board?”

She smiles crookedly. “I do.” It’s really sweet – she’s getting used to my changes of direction, apparently. She doesn’t even frown, content to follow my lead. The only thing left for me to do is make her realize.

“I read up on it,” I go on, still sounding quite unconcerned, “and still I couldn’t quite believe it was safe enough. B’Elanna explained, you explained, and still… I mean, the amount of antimatter on _Voyager_ could probably blow up a small moon or something, right?”

”More, in fact. A lot more.” 

“Right. So in the end, I gave up and settled for, ‘well, they know what they’re doing. They learned this, right?’” I look at her with questioning eyes. Enough? We spoke of this before, after all.

Apparently. “And you know what you’re doing when you say it’s okay to react this way.” Her smile is still there, and more relaxed by now, and I meet it with one of my own. “So what are those symptoms?”

I look at her, stunned for a moment by how quickly she’s accepted it, then collect myself again. “Apart from those I already mentioned? Insomnia. Irrational reactions up to and including panic attacks, at certain trigger memories. Avoidance of those memories. Emotional detachment.” I take a deep breath. “Depressive episodes.”

“Well, I do know these,” she says wryly. “And you’re saying those symptoms might occur, not that they will, right?” I nod, and she sighs. “So what do I do when they do?”

“Tell someone. Me, the Doctor, a counselor.”

“In that order?” Her smile is slightly ironic, and I answer with one of my own.

“Well, no. Rather, tell the person you think is best suited to help you.”

“Which would be you.”

“Not necessarily,” I exhale. 

She nods, slowly. “Because you aren’t my counselor.” 

God, _thank_ you. I would have thought that particular bit would be more difficult to get across. “Exactly. I’d like to know, still, and-” I take one of her hands again, stroke her slender fingers, so beautiful to me, before I look up at her face again, eyes intent. “I will do whatever I can, to help. But there are things I can’t do, just as there are things a counselor can’t do.” She frowns at that, and I smile again. “I’d be a bit put out if a counselor held you close after a nightmare.” 

She joins my smile, mouth quirking quite charmingly. “Hypothetically, of course.”

“Right.” Well, now. A promising outcome, so far. “My personal recommendation for the now: when you’re around pillars of strength, let go. Preserve your composure for times when you need to have it together.” I tilt my head until she nods understanding. “Although I meant what I said earlier,” I go on. “If you want to read up on this…” My tilted head conveys the rest of the sentence.

Another sigh. “I guess I do. I am like that.” Then she grins at me. “But you knew that, too, didn’t you.” And leans forwards and kisses me. 

I can’t help but smile into that kiss. For all the ups and downs of our rollercoaster, we’re getting good at this – at us. Honesty and trust, in a way I’ve never thought possible months ago, building castles in the air about the two of us having a future. And the thought that, against all odds and fears, I’m here with her, to hopefully spend the rest of our lives together, wakes a hunger in me that has nothing to do with the food waiting in my bag. No, another thing is in there, too, and my hand sneaks in to find it. I know my kiss changes as well.

Usually, when we make love, we’re equals. Well, a little role-playing, now and then, but nothing too… intense. I love when she takes control, when she tells me exactly what she’ll do, or won’t do until I – well, you get the picture. I love her hand covering my mouth every now and then, too, to keep me quiet, even if I bite her thumb’s root at times. At others, I take a more dominant role, and she relaxes into my lead, content to let me set the pace. Today, I want more than that. 

“I know you trust me, Kathryn.” My lips are still almost touching hers, and I can feel her breaths on them, heavy and aroused. When she whispers ‘yes’, the sibilant sound caresses them in a different way. God, I can even feel her heartbeat, right there, or maybe it’s mine, thrumming between us as I nip at her lower lip. “Do you trust me with this?” I draw the soft cloth across the back of the hand she’s holding herself up with. She pulls back minutely to look into my eyes, and I see that, without even looking down, she’s pretty certain of what I’m holding. Yet her second ‘yes’ comes immediately. Something peaks in me – desire, love, wonder, a mixture of the three, I can’t say. 

“Close your eyes, then, and don’t open them until I say so.” Good thing I’m still whispering. I’m not sure my voice wouldn’t have trembled if I’d spoken more loudly. This is about giving up control, and who relinquishes it to someone who can’t even control their vocal chords, hm?

She does. 

I still can feel her heart beat rapidly – I can see it, too, in her throat, her breasts, her groin. Can sense it with lips, fingers, tongue. Blindfolded as she is, she accepts the slight push that bids her lie down, after I’d removed her blouse and bra, and I smile quite dangerously when she follows my command to raise her hands above her head, grasp one hand with the other, ‘and don’t move until I say so’. Her breath hitches when she realizes I intend to take off her pants and slip, too, but she never says a word, and even relaxes, at least a little, when I tell her to. Yes. 

The blanket is coarser than bed sheets would be, of course, but, to my blinded lover, the difference in texture is just one sensation more, I guess. And it offsets the blade of grass quite nicely. She gasps when I start teasing her with it. _Oh, I have a few ideas how to tease you today, my Kathryn._ My left is currently holding one of the bottles I’ve brought, icy cold, straight from the stu into a mini-cooler – I’m looking forward to that, but at the moment I’ll stick to switching between the grass blade, touches, and kisses.

I know her reactions by now, the places where such light tickling is unbearable and where it turns her to distraction, the places where a flick of the tongue goes straight down between her legs and where a kiss or a bite shocks her out of arousal. I stop a couple of times because she does move one or the other muscle, and I can see how, after the third iteration, she fights to keep still. My love. Sunlight plays across her naked body, dappled from the boughs of lilac swaying above us. Goosebumps all over her, and nipples hard as marbles, for all the midday warmth around us. Her head is just as motionless as the rest of her – trembling, certainly, but unmoving otherwise – keeping the strip of fabric firmly in place across her eyes.

“Open your legs for me, Kathryn.” Oh, how eagerly she does. But, down to her toes goes the blade of grass, then I kiss the sharp rise of her hip bone and lick the backside of her knee, and when I finally, finally pull the grass across her glistening labia, she grates her teeth loud enough for me to hear. I haven’t told her to keep silent, but she does, clamping down on a growl when my tongue mirrors the movement of the shoot of grass. Her legs tremble with the effort of not bucking her hips against me when I suck and bite the edge of her mons, and a rush of breath leaves her lungs when my tongue dives in. The grass shoot makes an appearance again, to calm her down, and then my iced fingers slip into the place just vacated by my tongue. 

“Don’t _move_ ,” I growl, her cry ringing in my ears. My own arousal makes me sound quite dangerous, apparently; she complies instantly, the taut muscles of her abdomen quivering with shallow breaths. I wrap my right hand around that bottle now, careful to keep both away from her skin. No, I want her to concentrate on where _I_ am touching her, not some water bottle. When I start alternating between the cold of my fingers and the heat of my mouth and tongue, she abandons any attempt to stifle her sounds. I guess it’s all she can do to obey my command not to move, but obey she does, with a vengeance. The only muscles she can’t really control clench around my fingers whenever I push into her, back to my right hand now because my left has warmed so quickly in her heated wetness. My left is up at her hands now, ‘cross your wrists, Kathryn’, and grasps those wrists aggressively; mastery and aid in one, just as my leg, hooked around one of hers, helps her keep it still. Oh, her right side is pretty much immobilized by now, with my weight on her, and I can feel it spurring her on. Who would have thought it – I’d thought she’d put up much more of a fight. Even though her muscles are straining beautifully, they’re straining against nothing more than my words and her will, so enchanting to see…

“Don’t,” I growl again when I feel her start to tense, and she almost sobs. “You’ll come when I say so, and not one second earlier.” My fingers, completely unmoving, second the message, and her straining intensifies. I know she wants to do, wants _me_ to do something, anything, to have that wave break, but- “Don’t. Move.” My voice is low, dark, commanding – and she’s never heard me like this. “Look at you, all naked and helpless,” I purr. “And unable to see, too – someone might be watching since we began, and you’d never know it.” Good God, how her muscles clench around my fingers. How she keens. I never knew. “Think what they’d see – my hand restraining you so mercilessly, my fingers buried inside you to the knuckles…” I flutter them weakly, and she mewls again. “Think of what they’d think if they saw you coming, just because I told you to.” I slowly withdraw my fingers a little. Her gulping gasp is desperate, and still she doesn’t move. So very good. I move my head close to hers, until my lips almost touch the delicate skin beneath her ear. “Come.” It’s hum more than word, and my mouth transfers it to her skin while my fingers find her G-spot and perineum. 

I keep hold of her wrists and leg while she bucks, and straining against me pushes her to further heights. I file this carefully away for later – this is something new to be explored, and the way my thoughts turn have my breaths come ragged, too, not that I’m not almost climaxing myself just from the headiness of seeing her abandon. I know the instant the tide turns, too, and release her wrists slightly, pulling them down and around, pulling my leg in as well until I’m cradling her in my embrace, to calm her shuddering aftershocks. Her breathing is still quite irregular, and I think I know why that is.

“Open your eyes, Kathryn,” I murmur, pulling my head back a little to look down on her blindfolded face.

“But-”

“Just open your eyes, love.” She _has_ to understand what has happened. I can see when her lids come up – the fabric is diaphanous enough after all, barely more than a strip of gauze across her eyes. Insubstantial as it is, I can even see when she realizes, and softly disentangle one hand to pull the flimsy thing away. She never needed it. My words, her will – that’s all there was to it. 

This time, her tears have a different quality, looser, more unrestricted, almost relaxed, if that is possible with tears. I wrap her in my arms and hold her while she cries, pulling the blanket up around her even though her shivers are of a different nature. 

“You know what you’re doing, alright,” she croaks after a while, and I smile.

“I wouldn’t ask you to trust me otherwise, my love.” 

Her head tilts back so she can meet my gaze. Her eyes and fingers on my face are so full of emotion it nearly makes _my_ throat clench shut. No, Kathryn Janeway doesn’t say the famous three words much, but she doesn’t have to, when she looks at me like this. When she tells me, “I know,” like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book alluded to is _Night Watch_ , by Terry Pratchett, in which the esteemed Sir Samuel Vimes, Commander of same, refrains (barely) from killing a criminal at the end. But then, Sir Sam has the Guarding Dark at his proposal... 
> 
> The song is _Lazy Afternoon_ , from the 1954 Broadway musical The Golden Apple, music by Jerome Moross and lyrics by John Treville Latouche, wonderfully rendered, for example, by the incomparable Eartha Kitt.


	4. Thrust and Parry (May 21st)

“I don’t believe it!” Oh, the fury in Kathryn’s eyes. I fear for the PADD – she seems close to throwing it across the room, but in the end, she settles for flinging it on to the desk. Then she gets up and – no, she doesn’t pace. Stalking would be the apt description, I guess. “The only good thing about these… _orders_ -” I can hear several of the words she’s swallowing, and hide my smile, “-is that there’s nothing in here we haven’t thought of, and prepared for, but-” She breaks off, but her hand, the one that’s not on her hip, carries the conversation quite eloquently.

“Let me see?” I get up and walk over to the desk.

“Go right ahead,” she indicates the PADD with a withering look. 

I purse my lips more and more, the further I read. Yes, we did indeed prepare for all of these eventualities, but seeing them in black and white, or yellow on navy, as it were… 

Full comm. silence. 

_Voyager_ to be taken to Utopia Planitia Shipyards, to be examined minutely – and probably to pieces. 

Every single Maquis member to be put on trial, on numerous charges of breaching the Treaty of 2370, illicit possession of weapons, weapons’ smuggling, attacks on Starfleet and allied ships, unauthorized operations within the DMZ, and, which I find particularly inspired, breach of the peace for not moving from their colonies when ordered to. 

Those Maquis members who used to be Starfleet officers to be put on trials for desertion and treason. 

The _Equinox_ crewmembers to be put on court-martial for mass murder, and other charges that pale in comparison. 

Seven and Icheb to be interrogated by a panel in Starfleet Tactical. 

And, finally, Captain Kathryn Janeway to be court-martialed for murder, attempted murder, an impressive number of breaches of the Prime Directive, plus assorted other charges. At least she’s the only one to face charges – apparently someone has decided to heed that old adage that the captain takes responsibility for the conduct of her crewmembers.

Oh, and mandatory counseling for everyone – well, thank you.

“Talk about worst-case scenario,” I breathe. “Still, you’re right. We have our plans in place, our contacts, too. First thing is to refute as much of those-”

“Marie, they’re orders,” she interrupts me. “I can’t refute them.”

“Orders only apply to Starfleet officers. And while we all agree that we’re one crew, that doesn’t mean we’re legally so, right? And I’m certain the people who gave these orders are very well aware of that.” I peruse that part of the PADD and nod. Thought so. My fault, for aggravating them? No, they wouldn’t be so petty, surely. Would they? “Those are the exact people I met when I asked for the family reunions.”

“You-?” Kathryn turns to me, then throws up her hands. “You’ve got to _tell_ me these things, Marie!” 

“I cleared it with Commander Chakotay,” I tell her, “as part of my duties of seeing to the mental well-being of _Voyager’s_ crew, up to and including her captain.” She doesn’t answer; just stares at me angrily. “And so I went to see Admiral Paris,” I go on, “but his aide told me he wasn’t in charge and to approach Nechayev instead – how was I supposed to know that there were four more people in her office? And she said they were discussing _Voyager_ business anyway, so I decided to go ahead.” I heave a breath. “Kathryn, I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have told you earlier. I… for what’s it worth, I wanted it to be a surprise. Your mother was right with that, wasn’t she.” Still she stares at me, eyes unreadable. “And I think I got some useful insights, too, seeing those people interact.” I look at her until she starts pacing again, her mouth a flat line, then take another deep breath. “I think they’re doing this to see how far they can push you, you know. Think about what Jake’s said – public opinion is biased towards us, and Starfleet needs good publicity.”

“I don’t want good publicity, Marie, and I don’t want deals. If this is what they think my actions and decisions merit, then I’ll take it. But – Seven!” Her hand shoots up, then lands at her hairline. “Icheb. Chakotay, B’Elanna, Ayala and the other Maquis – _Voyager_! The Doctor, for crying out loud!”

“The Doctor?”

“Paragraph two, subsection five – holographic equipment. He’s to be dismantled, same as my ship.” Her jaw muscles work furiously. “You know, there are moments when I’d really like to order Tom to take off and leave.” I can tell that my first impulse of an answer, ‘why don’t we?’, wouldn’t go over well, so I keep my silence, and she keeps wearing down the carpet. Then she stops and turns to me, with a deep breath, chin jutting. “Let’s call the war council.” I nod, and she reaches for her comm. badge.

* * *

“They agreed to quite a few things, in the end.” Kathryn smiles a tight little crooked slip of a smile. It shouldn’t feel like victory, it’s only the beginning, after all, but the lenience she’d wrestled from the admirals is broader than she’d hoped for, and now informing her war council feels like a success indeed. “They’ve rephrased their order concerning you and Icheb, Seven. They’re calling it ‘a hearing to determine your status’ now – which is something we can build on – and have issued an ‘invitation to discuss Borg technology and its possibilities’, after that hearing is through.” Seven inclines her head with what’s almost a smile, too, and – yes, that’s Chakotay taking her hand and squeezing it, and an actual smile, a true and blooming one, when she looks at him. Years of training help Kathryn keep her jaw from dropping, but Marie doesn’t feel so inhibited – her smile is brilliant. 

“ _Voyager_ will stay here, and we on her,” Kathryn goes on, “until both these discussions and the Maquis trials are over – they’ve accepted that it doesn’t make sense to start to examine all the modifications without the ship’s chief engineer and resident Borg expert.” She does allow herself another wry smile at the memory. Patterson had gone along with her line of argumentation instantly. He’d almost seemed daunted of the task ahead, eager not to sail into it alone. And he’d told her in what had been almost a promise that he’d keep her up to date if, ‘for any reason’, she couldn’t be present herself. 

As to that – “my own court-martial will proceed as scheduled,” Kathryn picks up the thread again, “but they’ve accepted my sanctioning of the _Equinox_ crewmembers as sufficient, seeing as they were following their captain’s orders and have worked hard at redeeming themselves. So they are out of the line of fire, as are you, Doctor – Admiral Louvois looked certainly uncomfortable when I mentioned the hearing on Commander Data’s status, and agreed to postpone any further actions until your legal status has been clarified. Well done, Tuvok, for digging that one up.” Tuvok inclines his head, and the Doctor beams.

“As expected, I couldn’t do anything about the Maquis trials, but Starfleet Command is withdrawing their charges of desertion and treason in exchange for a disciplinary hearing for those who wish to re-enter.” Chakotay nods thoughtfully, probably already going down a mental list of just who that might be. “And the comm. silence…” Kathryn’s smile gets a tad more dangerous. Just as her insistence about the Maquis trials had been mainly for show (moot point after all – it’s a civilian court who’ll be pursuing the charges, not Starfleet), the comm. silence had been another bargaining chip, this one to show good-will, and, what’s better, over something that didn’t really hurt, either. “We have the go-ahead for communications with friends and relatives – thank you, Counselor, for preparing that line of argumentation – along with a list of matters that are to be concerned confidential. And the gathered admiralty was quite relieved when I told them those of us who aren’t Starfleet would keep media silence, too.” She nods at Ellie, who flashes a smile. Jake Sisko already has his statement, after all.

“Well, that sounds heartening,” the Doctor says. Then his face falls almost comically, “except for your court-martial, of course, Captain.” Kathryn is sure he’d blush if he could. From his first time in this round, he’d kept bringing on that blasted list of his, and how he’d make ever so sure it was completely erased from _Voyager’s_ records. So Kathryn does what she’s done every time this has come up – flick a hand dismissively and smile at him. 

“Doctor, I’ve known I’d have to face the music for a long, long time. And Admiral Louvois herself will lead the proceedings, which is just as well. No cop-out, no deals, no white-washing with her – when I’m through, at least I’ll be able to look myself in the face, no matter what her verdict.” Marie’s mouth purses uneasily, but, truth to tell, so does Chakotay’s. Well, all of the six faces around the table are grave.

“Now,” Kathryn goes on with a lighter tone, “I’m pleased to say, these new circumstances are nothing we haven’t reckoned with. We have a glimpse of the lay of the land, as far as the _Voyager_ panel is concerned,” she throws Marie a quick smile to reassure her that, angry as she’d been, it’s over now, “and once we find out who else is going to be involved, we can find out more about them as well. I’m almost convinced they’re going to bring Picard in on your debriefing, Seven.”

“That would be a reasonable assumption, Captain.” 

“And Starfleet Medical’s counseling department has already dispatched three officers to be available to our crew.”

“Three.” Marie’s voice is flat. She had asked for six, after all, minimum.

“Commander Troi did send her apologies, but apparently, most of her counseling teams are still wrapped up in dealing with the aftermath of the war. In fact, she assigned herself, if I remember correctly, even if she can’t pull full-time duty, seeing as she’s the department head,” Kathryn elaborates, and Marie heaves a sigh. _Voyager’s_ captain is quite sure their thoughts go along the same paths on this. Wartime repercussions do take precedent, after all. Triage, Kathryn remembers, and suppresses a wry smile.

“The other two full-time, at least?”

Kathryn looks at the PADD in her hands. “As far as I can make out, yes.”

Another sigh, more accepting this time. “That’s something, then. Ah well.” The younger woman leans back and kicks her legs out beneath the table. “It’ll do, I suppose.” Kathryn suppresses what would have been a completely unprofessional laugh – Marie’s pouting, or something quite close to it. The younger woman’s eyebrow comes up nevertheless, but at least she sits up straighter.

Kathryn runs her gaze over her war council. A nod, a terse smile. “As soon as I get more information, names, details, I’ll let you know. Dismissed.”


	5. The Measure of a Borg (May 30th)

“I was born human. I have been told I can lay claim to that legacy, including Federation citizenship, by virtue of that fact. Yet it’s a fact, too, that I have lived eighteen years as a Borg drone, having been assimilated at the age of six. I was a Borg drone through what by most species is considered a character-forming period of their lives, or, more idiomatically, if imprecisely put, I grew up as Borg. 

“When I was severed from the collective, I found it supremely difficult to adapt to being an individual. At the beginning, I fought to return to the Collective, and I deeply resented the unilateral decision that had inflicted this… solitude on me. It took some time for me to understand how, and why, the sentient beings around me cherished their isolation so much. Though it was explained to me that among most sentient beings, the concept of individuality is valued above all else, I found it difficult to perceive of such a notion.

“In fact, I was scared. Scared of being among individuals, scared of their uniqueness and of my inability to predict their reactions to me. In the Borg collective there is no need for prediction. Every drone knows how another drone will react in any given situation. The hive mind can predict behavior of any given number of individuals, too, with an accuracy of up to ninety-eight point three six percent, depending on variables such as species and current tactical situation. Severed from that, I found it extremely… confusing to discover how inaccurate my predictions and assumptions were. 

“The members of _Voyager’s_ crew have taught me, each in their own way, to learn, to watch, to communicate with the individual in question, to recognize patterns and motives of behavior in order to improve the quality of my estimates. My accuracy has risen through that, and if at times my prediction of another individual’s possible behavior is in error, I can now accept that as a consequence of individuality, rather than wishing for a collective’s synchronicity of thought and action. 

“ _Voyager’s_ crewmembers have encouraged me to… explore my individuality, as they sought to accommodate every crewmember’s individual traits, seeing them as assets rather than hindrance. Observing how well that works, I have come to see why this individuality, perplexing as its unpredictability can be, is valued so much. During my stay on _Voyager_ I found that, while it was by no means a perfect harmony, the dynamics of a group of individuals united by a common goal allowed them to be just as, and at times more efficient than a collective.

“In Standard, an assembly of individuals can be called, among other designations and depending on multiple parameters, ‘crew’, ‘friends’, or ‘family’. Being told, by various crewmembers, that I am part of the ship’s crew, has brought me a new sense of belonging, one that I… value, even though it is a collective with parameters so varied, changeable and confusing that I cannot precisely indicate whether it is, to me, a team of colleagues, a group of friends, or… family. With this sense of belonging has come a wish to protect this group and its members, not in the way a drone would defend the collective, but freely. By extension, and again by choice, I have adopted this group’s values as well, up to and including the individuality that used to scare me.

“I do not define myself as Borg any longer, yet I cannot define myself as fully human, either. Examples: I have chosen to retain my Borg designation in its shortened form since it is commonly used by my… friends, and thus more familiar to me than my human name. My physical capacities far surpass the human average, as does my projected lifespan. My body plainly is no longer completely human, nor can it be returned to that state, at least according to current medical knowledge. And yet, I am no longer part of the Borg collective, nor do I wish to be. 

“I am both Borg, and human, and neither of the two. I am different. I am unique. As I have told this court, there has been a time when that scared me, just as it scared the people around me. My actions, my suggestions, my needs, sometimes the fact of who I had been or what I represented, were things they had difficulties adapting to. They did, though, and did not hold me responsible for their difficulties, just as I do not hold them responsible, anymore, for the difficulties I had and still have with adapting to my individuality. 

“As you will be aware, the principal Borg motivation is to seek perfection. My search for perfection continues, yet the way I now pursue that goal is no longer the Borg way. I aspire toward perfection by exploring my own potentials – human as well as Borg. I do not wish to surrender my human emotions or my free will, just as I do not wish to negate the heightened efficiency my Borg implants grant me. I wish to pursue these potentials on my own terms without outside impositions, just as I do not wish to impede another being’s pursuit of perfection by my actions or lack thereof. This, as I understand it, is consistent with most sentient species’ views of individual rights. 

“The declared purpose of this hearing is to establish whether I am human, or Borg, and what to ‘do with me either way’. If your struggle to define me is motivated by finding whether the Federation’s constitutional Guarantees apply to me, I believe my testimony to be… comprehensive enough for a ruling. If this hearing has been called because you ‘don’t know what to make of me’, as the phrase goes, I can only… hope, that what I have said will help you understand. However, I protest in the strongest possible terms against any assumption that assigning me a designation asserts a right of this court to decide what to do with me. My life and how I pursue it is my decision and mine alone, although your ruling in this matter will certainly… influence my future plans.”

* * *

“I still can’t believe she told them, in so many words, to go fuck themselves! Bloody brilliant!” re-affirmed, re-instated Lieutenant junior grade Paris grins to a round of laughter. He’d been the first to apply for re-entry, and seeing how I hadn’t set eyes on his father without seeing a brilliant smile, he’d been as quick to set things right with his old man, too, at least for the time being. A family break-up like this leaves darker, deeper traces, after all – still, each journey starts with a single step, as they say. 

“And brilliantly delivered, too, of course,” the Doctor joins him, handing out glasses of celebratory champagne. “Although I wouldn’t have expected any less of you, Seven. I believe you had them ‘gob-smacked’, as the expression goes. And across the barrel, too.”

“Thank you,” Seven of Nine, former Borg drone and new Federation citizen by choice, tilts her head slightly, foregoing the champagne, and, at least on the face of it, celebration as well. 

“And didn’t we all cheer you for it,” Paris salutes her with his glass, still grinning. “Captain,” he levels a finger, “no use denying it, I saw your arm twitch. I wasn’t the only one to want to air-punch.”

“You were the only one who did, though, Tom,” Kathryn fires right back at him. She’s still not cleared and thus still not certain of her future, much less her rank, and I know how hearing someone call her ‘captain’ irks her, at the moment. “Giving the assorted press the perfect picture for today’s headlines in the process – Ex-Drone Green-Lighted, indeed.”

“And that was the most restrictive of them all. You should’ve seen the tabloids,” _Voyager’s_ Doctor bristles.

“I don’t waste my time with them.” Kathryn’s lips purse derisively and I hide my smile. No, she doesn’t – that’s Ellie’s job, after all. Even though we’re still holding to our self-imposed media ban, Ellie’s following what they cook up without our aid, and closely, too.

“You’re all over them, too, Captain.” B’Elanna breaks into our circle after having handed her daughter over to her father-in-law, solicitousness in her voice while she snakes an arm around her husband, stealing his glass. “Personally I don’t think anyone, even admirals, can free themselves of that amount of public opinion.”

“From what I’ve seen so far, I don’t think they’re even trying,” Kathryn growls. “I’ve been told that I’m ‘the perfect poster girl’, for heaven’s sake. Apparently, they desperately need recruits. And heroes.” Her voice, deprecating from the start, couldn’t be more sarcastic on that last word. “And while I can see their reasons, still I wish we weren’t subject to their machinations.”

“It does make one question the proceedings, does it not,” Tuvok remarks in his usual calm tones. “I would not have believed it possible, yet the rulings can indeed be read that way, in light of past developments.” He doesn’t have to list them. The Son’a Conspiracy, the Dominion War, not to mention those ever-growing rumors of an illicit organization within the Federation doing very, _very_ dirty work – things aren’t going at all well; haven’t for a while. Not quite the clean, enlightened society I had expected from what Kathryn had told me. Then again, the press echo we’d seen while still in the Delta Quadrant had done away with much of that notion already.

“I simply resent how everyone, not just the media, jumps at the chance of parading us like so many prize horses.” The glare, and the gravel in that voice, is so familiar that quite a few glasses rise to hide smiles.

“You have to admit, though, Captain, that it did speed our acquittals.” Chakotay looks at her, head tilted.

“It might have, but how can I drink to that if it throws this kind of suspicion on our legal proceedings and institutions? God, but I hate politics!” She downs the rest of her champagne and shudders.

“Hear, hear,” he toasts her, dimples showing when she glares at him.

Acquitted. All of the Maquis. These hadn’t been Starfleet court-martials, but ordinary legal proceedings, and that way, there’d been no restriction for the press, something Ellie and Jake had played unashamedly and to the hilt. They hadn’t even needed actual interviews or pictures – the stories had been all over town: Tom, B’Elanna and little Miral; loyal Ayala reunited with his wife, husband and kids; all the other heart-warming reunions. The memorial service for all crewmembers killed in action, Starfleet and Maquis, attended by all surviving crewmembers, Starfleet and Maquis. And even if the court had, as any court would, claimed impartiality, we’d known they’d been under heavy pressure from hardliners, both Starfleet and not. Really, it had been just balancing the scales, what Ellie and Jake had done. 

Or maybe it had been the excellent cases the defense attorneys had made each time, or the simple fact that people are sick to death to hear anything that reminds them of the War. Whatever the reason, those trials had been over in a week, consistently finding that in view of the restrictions everyone had been subject to in the Delta Quadrant, those seven years counted, in the eyes of the court, as ‘time served’. It surely had taken them longer to come up with the appropriate factors to calculate back pay than with those verdicts, Tom had snarked. Each acquittal had been met with a roar of approval, both inside the courtroom and out. At the penultimate, Owen Paris’ smile had outshone his son’s, cradling his granddaughter in the crook of his arm while Tom had kissed his wife, then whirled her around, to furious camera clicking. At the last one, Tom had started to gruffly shake Chakotay’s hand, then he’d pulled him into a bear-hug, right in front of more cameras, of course. Really, Tom’s a natural at this.

Granted, I go right along with Kathryn and Tuvok on this, but as I’ve told Kathryn a while ago, I’m much more the politician than the knight errand, and somehow, I’d reckoned with this turn of events. So: the _Equinox_ and Maquis crewmembers cleared (and a considerable number of the latter opting for re-enlistment), and Seven and Icheb invited to take Federation citizenship, the former eventually consenting to take part in examining _Voyager’s_ modifications. Practically minutes later, orders had come to leave _Voyager_ along with addresses for ‘Fleet housing. Abandon ship.

I take a surreptitious look at Kathryn while talk turns to what the Doctor will do when _Voyager_ leaves for Mars, seeing as his fate is not yet determined. She took those orders well, at first sight, but she seems brittle today. I know her own hearings are wearing on her – I might not be allowed in, but I know her well enough to recognize her state of mind when she comes home. She’s still pulling together, pushing things away. We can tick the box ‘sleeplessness’ big time, too. And except for her defense, one Commander Lindholm, who’s reportedly doing a fine job, Kathryn’s all alone in there, and it sits very, very ill with me, as does the fact that in the ten days since the hearings began, she hasn’t had one single day of respite. No, ten hours of hearing, and then another two with Commander Troi for psychological assessment – not counseling, and that’s another thing I resent. God, but this is hard on her. 

Hard on me, too, that she barely talks when she comes home, much less about what’s happened during the day. Part of me understands – it’s confidential, after all – and yet I yearn to support her with more than just dinner, or embraces, or taking her mind off things when she lets me. 

At least those twelve hours each day give me time to do my own job – the two counselors that have been assigned to the _Voyager_ crew, Lieutenants Mpala and T’Sora, are top-notch, too, even if mandatory counseling is something the crew appreciated just as much as expected. But between the three of us, we’ve seen almost every crewmember at least once, and the initial resistance is slowly growing into grudging cooperation. The fact that we’ve been able to clear a lot of them after one or two sessions helps, although some of those we’ve asked to come back for a third or fourth appointment have bridled at it. Then again, my dismissal looms on the horizon – I don’t have anything to prove I’m a certified social worker, after all, even though the working relationship with Mpala and T’Sora is a good one. But rules are rules, and in an organization like Starfleet doubly so. And a paperless social worker is no social worker at all.

Tuning back into the conversation, I catch a passing comment of Tom’s about the reception tomorrow, and groan. I don’t like the timing at all, but apparently, the Powers That Be in Starfleet Command have insisted. From what Kathryn tells me, it had been all she could do to persuade them to wait until after the Maquis’ crewmembers trials. Granted, if we were to wait until Kathryn’s court-martial is over, we probably wouldn’t have the party before the leaves turn brown, but – how is she supposed to shake hands and smile and dance when… I don’t get it. I guess not many people do.

It’s late when we come home, and her shoulders slump the instant the doors close behind us. “I’m taking a bath,” she announces, slipping out of her shoes, “I’ve been longing for one all day.”

“Want company?”

She heaves a sigh, then tries to smile at me. “I don’t think so, Marie. Please don’t be-” I wave her worry away and she does find a true, if tired smile for me, for it. 

She’s robed and fragrant when she comes back. Red-eyed, too – she does that sometimes; takes her crying elsewhere. She knows I understand. At least tonight, she sits down on the sofa next to me instead of heading straight for bed, or back to her desk. Her robe drops open when she does and reveals her satin night-gown, and I think she’s…

“Have you lost weight?” I frown as I ask, putting the PADD with T’Sora’s latest assessment of Crewman Lessing aside. 

Another sigh, another failed smile. “I suppose so.”

I turn until I’m facing her. That’s all I do. I look at her, my eyes not conveying anything but ‘I’m here’ to her. It’s not as if she doesn’t know, either. After a few moments of this, her eyes drop to look at her fingers, fiddling with the belt of her robe. After another half-minute, she slowly sinks forwards and lets herself be embraced. She doesn’t cry, not really. Shudders and heaves, all without a single tear. That goes on for a bit longer than a minute. 

Finally, she takes a long breath; in, out. Withdraws. “Thank you.” Our kiss is simple, as simple as our understanding. Incredible, to think that I didn’t even know her half a year ago.


	6. Dancing Captains (May 31st)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attention, dear reader: This chapter starts with a third-person POV that is NOT Kathryn's. :-) The rest of it is what you're used to, though: First-person POV is Marie's, third-person is KJ, and you wouldn't believe how much fun it was to write it.

The handful of people not in uniform stands out because of it. It isn’t that the _Voyager_ crew wouldn’t include them – some of them are, obviously, very much part of the _Voyager_ family, as he’d heard it called, much more so than some of the uniformed attendees. It’s only an outsider’s eye that’s drawn to the few differently clad figures in the room, and Jean-Luc Picard certainly is that. He definitely feels like it, even though he’d been invited by one member of this ‘family’, and he wouldn’t wonder if Admirals Nechayev, Patterson and Haftel, representing Starfleet Command but clearly not well-received, feel like this as well. Owen Paris is the only one of that particular group drawn into the circle, a granddaughter his access pass and his wife one of the small number of civilians present. 

The place is packed to capacity, even though invitations were quite restricted. Unlike other Admiralty receptions he’d been to over the years, this actually is a party: there’s talk, laughter, and a feeling of tension relieved; and the seemingly unavoidable dancing, both ballroom style and not. Closure, in a way, for all the bad timing. The fact that _Voyager’s_ crew had demanded the reception be held after the Maquis trials speaks well for them, in Picard’s opinion. And he can understand why the Admiralty hadn’t wanted to wait until Janeway had been acquitted, too – or not. That court martial is set to go on for a good bit yet, too long to postpone something like this for, too long to let people’s hunger for stories and pictures go unquenched. The press had waited eagerly in front of the transporter hub, on that short stretch of red carpet – their attention to all things _Voyager_ is bordering on the obsessive.

Janeway herself is present – of course she would be. Her dedication, her connection to this crew is rapidly getting proverbial; Picard can watch her progress through the crowd just by looking at people’s faces. Where she is, they shine with pride, affection, solicitousness. If her court martial were a public trial as the Maquis proceedings had been, it would, in all probability, be just as packed. Despite the conflicting images the media are trying to paint of her, this alone speaks well for her, Picard thinks again, feeling intensely curious about _Voyager’s_ mission logs, or, barring that, the possibility to talk to Captain Kathryn Janeway, alone and uninterrupted, for a while. 

She’d arrived with two women in civilian dress, and the three of them had begun mingling immediately, forgoing the mediocre buffet for reunions, hugs, and banter. Now, an hour later, the captain is still eluding him, her small civilian companion talking animatedly to an officer with golden piping on her sleeves, the other, taller one standing at the room’s back, alone. Or rather, leaning back against the bar’s counter, one foot hooked around and playing with a bar stool. It’s leaning precariously, that stool is, and Picard briefly wonders how many glasses of wine she might have had other than the one she’s cradling. She doesn’t look inebriated, though. Her eyes roam the crowd, a secret smile dancing around her lips every now and then.

He’d bet good money it doesn’t take much to bring out that smile in earnest, or a full-blown laugh, and yet she seems content to stay apart for the moment. Intriguing. Well, if the captain is not available… Picard begins to make his way across to her. A woman of contrasts. She isn’t pretty, he thinks, not in what usually counts as prettiness, but her face is pleasingly symmetrical; nose straight, mouth mobile, eyes alert and expressive. What’s more, it seems… kind. A friend’s face. In the few moments he’d been watching her, he’d seen it turn from ironic to affectionate to truly amused, and back again. 

The stranger seems nearly as tall as Picard himself, too, sturdier than most women he knows –muscle, though, mostly, he’d judge. Her dress looks remarkable on her, playing her strengths, glossing over weaknesses so nonchalantly you’d have to stare to see them – Picard knows good tailoring when he sees it. Her hair doesn’t quite fit, though – from where he’s standing, he can see the grey in it, and she doesn’t look much older than Wesley, surely? The haircut itself – oh, he certainly is no expert on _that_ , but to him it looks… cheerful. A contrast, again, a wavy, shortish affair, curls pointing outwards; windswept, somehow – certainly nothing as serene as the woman herself seems to be, poised as she is against the bar. Looking at him, eyebrows raised. And smiling.

“Do we know each other, Captain Eyeball?” Fair enough. And not being recognized is nice, in a way. Hell, even if she does recognize him and just wants to play – he can do that, too.

“Jean-Luc,” he extends his hand. “I beg your pardon. You caught my eye – not many people without a uniform here, tonight.”

She takes his proffered hand, narrowing her eyes a little, like a curious cat. “Jean-Luc? Tu es Français?” She pronounces his name the French way, too. It’s been a while since he’d heard that.

“Oui, mademoiselle,” and because he’d been brought up properly, he bows slightly over the hand he’s still holding. He’d been right. It doesn’t take much to make her laugh. And her laugh is friendly, too. She stops toying with the chair and offers it to him.

“Je m’appelle Marie,” she says, free hand to her chest, regardless of the glass of wine she’s still holding. He suppresses a wince in time to see nothing happen.

“Enchanté, Marie. Un nom joli, ça – ma belle-sœur s’appelle Marie, aussi.” Suppressing the old sorrow that goes with the thought isn’t easy, but Picard is sure she hasn’t noticed. 

She sighs, a bit resigned. “Premier fois quelqu’un prononce mon nom correctement, et c’est un Français. Mais, Jean-Luc, sois patient avec moi, je ne suis pas Française, moi.”

“Non!” He can do scandalized with the best of them, and they share another laugh. 

“Oh, yes indeed, Jean-Luc.” Taking a look at his glass, she grasps a bottle and offers, refilling his glass when he nods, and her own, too. He tries to sneak a look at the bottle’s label.

“Italian, then?” 

“The wine, or me?”

“Both?” At the first cursory sip, though, his eyes widen from the impact. 

She catches it immediately. “Good, isn’t it? Although – sorry. To ask a Frenchman to lose a good word about Italian wine…”

“Oh, actually, I like it. It is quite powerful, though, isn’t it? A primitivo?” 

Marie tilts her head appreciatively. “A connoisseur, hm?” This, too, she pronounces decidedly French, much to his pleasure. “No,” she goes on, “this is Amarone.” Full Italian pronunciation, too, and much better than his ‘primitivo’ had been. An expert on old European languages, maybe? She does have an accent to her Standard, one he can’t quite place. But if she is, what’s she doing here? _Voyager_ certainly didn’t have one aboard; there wouldn’t have been much point. He briefly remembers reading that Janeway had a sister, but… no, she can’t be. No likeness at all. 

Seeing that she’s holding out the bottle for his perusal, he takes it to do just that – solve the wine mystery first, solve the woman’s mystery later. A little mystery had never hurt, and, though she isn’t exactly his type, there’s a certain… something about her. Captain Eyeball, indeed. From the corners of his eyes, he can see her taking a swallow from her glass, savoring the taste like any connoisseur would. A wine expert, then?

“This can’t be right,” he says, softly, after a moment. “Someone must have played a trick on us.”

“What’s that?”

“Here,” he points at the label. “Vintage 2008 – it can’t be. No one would open a nearly four-hundred year old wine just like that.”

“Maybe it’s replicated?” She snorts a laugh as his eyes widen, truly scandalized this time. “No one would replicate four-hundred year old wine?”

“Certainly not. It’s a violation of all things cultivated.” 

Again, she laughs, more freely this time. “Oh, Jean-Luc, you better believe it. It’s replicated indeed, from a couple of bottles I brought with me.”

“ _You_ \- may I enquire as to how?”

She leans towards him, murmuring when he reciprocates. “I’m nearly four centuries old, too.”

“Jamais.” Leaning back, he refuses it flat out, his hand underlining his rejection. “You don’t look a day older than a hundred and fifty, mademoiselle.”

She throws her head back to laugh, this time, and a few heads turn towards them. “I could say the same to you, monsieur.” When she laughs, she is beautiful – what a sparkle. 

“I don’t look- well, _thank_ you.”

“Anytime, Captain Eyeball.” So she had caught that last look of his, had she? The teasing gleam in her eyes seems to say so. Then the band strikes up a rhumba, and those eyes grow wistful. Well. He can catch looks, too, and he knows _that_ one in a lady’s eye.

“Alors, Marie mystérieuse, d’un âge incertain, d’une origine inconnue – voulez-vous danser?”

“Avec plaisir, monsieur.” She slips off her chair and takes his proffered hand. Leading her to the dance floor, he discovers that they are indeed of a height, and she isn’t even in heels, at least no more than he is. She dances hesitantly, at first, like someone who hasn’t in a long time. After a few steps, though, she leans into his arm trustingly, and soon they’re trying out figures, to mixed success, and more laughter. He catches Marie in his arms after a twirl when the music ends, and groans at her delighted smile when the next dance is, of all things, a waltz.

“Oh, come on, Jean-Luc – no chickening out, now.”

“I’ll have you know, mademoiselle, that chickening is frowned upon in officers,” he replies with as much dignity as he can muster. 

She whoops when he tightens his hold on her waist, then laughs again. “Waltzing certainly can be… centrifugal, right?”

“Let’s make it so.”

* * *

Talking to Naomi and her mother, Kathryn sees Samantha’s eyes suddenly round with surprised hilarity, turns to where the new lieutenant is looking… and almost chokes on her drink.

Marie is dancing with Jean-Luc Picard. 

And having a ball, by the look of it. Wincing at the feeble pun helps Kathryn find her feet again, though. She knew Marie was easy-going, but… then again, maybe Marie simply has no idea who her escort is. They’re chatting away animatedly, at any rate, and making quite an impact on the dance floor, both for the sight alone, and for the sheer fun they exude, up to and including wide, sweeping figures that have people scurrying. 

Marie fits Picard’s height just as well as her dress fits the new dress whites. She’d matched its color to the smoky grey of the new officers’ dress uniform shirts, and the dress’ lines, shirred in some places, freely flowing in others, both complement and highlight the austere cut of the uniforms. Phoebe must have had a hand in this, or Ellie, maybe even both – Marie certainly doesn’t have the kind of sartorial acumen her dress represents. Still, she looks gorgeous, and Kathryn isn’t about to complain. Imager lenses had clicked furiously all along the red carpet, and entering with Marie on her right arm and Ellie, in a deceptively simple sheath dress of the same grey, on her left, had been met with several grins of approval. Then they’d separated to mingle, and now… 

Seeing Picard lead Marie to a currently unoccupied table, Kathryn quickly excuses herself from Naomi and Samantha and makes a beeline over to them. 

“I hope you’re not monopolizing.” She’s looking at Marie, eyebrow raised, but it’s Picard who answers, rising to offer her a seat. 

“Captain Janeway – do join us.”

“Thank you.” Sliding into his vacated chair, Kathryn tries for gracefulness, flustered though she feels. The way the sparkle in Marie’s eye changes ever so slightly, she’s passed muster, too. “I do hope you’re comfortable in the midst of this crowd of strangers.”

“Oh, perfectly so, Captain,” he answers, finding another chair for himself. “In fact, I seem to have found another stranger to keep me company.” He nods to Marie, and the two of them share a smile, Marie’s deliberately mysterious. 

“Mais je ne suis pas étrangère, Jean-Luc,” she says innocently, and Kathryn freezes. No stranger, indeed. First-name basis? After what, ten minutes? What the-

“Relax, Captain Kathryn,” Marie laughs at her, and Kathryn offers thanksgiving to whatever deity is around that it had been just her first name instead of ‘Captain Coffee Bean’. “We just danced and talked about the wine.”

“Which is why you’re still a stranger to me, Marie,” Picard admonishes her with a finger that promptly gets swatted at. _Good grief._

“I _did_ bring that wine with me. And I _am_ four centuries old, or as close as makes no difference. Kathryn, you tell him.” Marie takes a swallow of her half-empty glass. It is synthehol, but she does seem more than a little tipsy to Kathryn. Does Marie know how to handle synthehol, anyway?

“Captain, she-”

“Please,” Picard interrupts her. “Jean-Luc. It’s been such a pleasure not to be captained.”

“Bet you she won’t pronounce it right.” Kathryn’s glare doesn’t affect Marie in the slightest, as usual. In fact, the younger woman takes another sip, and _winks_ at Kathryn.

“Marie.” Picard sounds slightly reprimanding and endlessly patient. “I’m used to people saying my name like that. You’re the great exemption, really.”

“Well, so are you. Cheers.” They clink glasses. Then Marie’s eyes return to Kathryn’s face, and she snorts. “Kathryn, _relax_.” A quick gesture has a waiter materialize at her elbow, and dematerialize with instructions.

“You have to try the wine, Kathryn. It’s truly exceptional.” Picard’s eyes are sparkling with laughter.

“And that’s something, coming from him, you know.” Marie beams as the waiter fills the glass he’s brought for Kathryn and tops up the other two. Then she deftly pilfers the bottle off him. “Thank _you_.” 

“To a happy return,” Jean-Luc offers, and they clink glasses again. “Now, chère Catherine, I don’t suppose I can prevail upon you to enlighten me as to mysterious Marie’s background?”

Marie looks from one captain to another. “Jean-Luc, I _told_ you: fair’s fair. I don’t know a thing about you either, other than that you’re French. And one-hundred and fifty.”

She’s timed it perfectly. Kathryn’s wine lands in her glass, mostly, fortunately.

* * *

Well. How was I supposed to know, right? And Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the current _Enterprise_ , certainly seems to enjoy my company. And how can I help laughing, every time I think of how Kathryn’s wine came the wrong way when I said that about his age? My Kathryn, star-struck? He must be one hell of a captain, then. Well, if he’s as good at it as he’s at dancing… I’m tapping my foot in time to the music and he realizes. Perceptive, too, so. 

“So how come you’re here, then?” I ask him, to take away his dilemma – he can’t ask me for a dance, it would leave Kathryn sitting here alone. 

“Seven of Nine invited me.” 

My jaw drops. “Seven of Nine?” His eyes narrow minutely, but not in doubt. No, that’s pain, there, in the corners of his eyes. _Retreat, Vey._ “Alright,” I chuckle, shaking my head. “Well, I’m glad she did, you know.” _That’s right; give him time to regain composure._ “I don’t know when I last danced. _You_ never dance with me,” I point an accusing finger at Kathryn. 

She raises her eyebrow. “It never came to it, as I recall. Usually, when we’re in public and there’s music playing, you’re singing.”

“Touché,” I accede, and now Jean-Luc’s back in the game. 

“Singing.” His voice is as clipped as his accent, but amusement is back in his eyes.

“Mais bien sur, Jean-Luc-” I set out, but Kathryn’s quicker than I.

“Don’t get her started,” she holds up her hands, mouth quirking. “She’ll join the band before we know it, and then what will the admirals do?”

“Sing along, most likely.” His dead-pan statement is met with a few seconds of awed contemplation. 

“No.” I shake my head, and “no,” Kathryn echoes me, almost instantly. 

Jean-Luc chuckles, then drops his smile as quickly as it had come. “Shame on us, talking about our betters this way.”

“Chalk it up to my bad influence,” I offer grandiosely, my glass sweeping a wide semi-circle through the air. “I’m Irreverent Marie, after all. She Who Chats Up Captains.”

“So _that’s_ what you do,” he snaps his fingers. “I was wondering, you know.”

“All part of a counselor’s duties,” I tell him solemnly. “Set people at their ease, et cetera.”

“Counselor?” He shakes his head. “Damn shame.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve lost mine to the joys of a desk job a while ago. But you’re not Starfleet, are you?” He eyes my civilian dress again, more surreptitiously this time. “Ever thought of joining? The _Enterprise_ -”

It’s Kathryn who answers, finger level in his face and eyes sparkling; I love every single one of the four words she utters, in her most glorious, husky drawl. “Get in line, Captain.” I whoop a laugh, thread my arm around her waist and kiss her. 

I’ll give him this: he doesn’t bat an eye. “Drat.” 

Kathryn doesn’t take my move nearly as coolly as he does. Oh no. She quickly takes a sip of wine, both to hide her face and to have her hair fall forward over the pinkness in her ears. Here she sits, having staked her claim on me as boldly as I’ve never heard her, and then blushing when I kiss her for it. And then – hell. Her head rises, chin jutting, eyes still agleam, and-

Whoa. 

She’s never kissed me in public, good God, but she rarely kisses me so assertively in private. And even though we’re not exactly the center of attention, there are catcalls, and wolf whistles, and even a smattering of applause. And I?

I am flabbergasted.

Ellie takes that moment to pull up another chair and sink down into it. “What a screw-up.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask her, glad for the distraction.

“The food’s bad, the admirals don’t mingle, and don’t let me get started on the band…”

“Why, they’re murdering the tunes as best they can,” Jean-Luc Picard answers her with an amused glint in his eye. 

“Ellie, meet Jean-Luc Picard,” I introduce them, “Jean-Luc, meet Ellen Will.”

“Enchanté, Mademoiselle Ellen,” he replies, and Ellie smirks at how he bows over her hand. 

“Pareillement, Monsieur Jean-Luc.” 

He grabs his heart. “Two of them. Kathryn. You obviously know whom to invite.”

“Not my party,” Kathryn shrugs, then raises her eyebrows apologetically to Ellie. “I gather there was a last minute change of responsibilities, and somehow this reception wasn’t at the top of the priority list.” And when Ellie just _looks_ at her, head tilted, she elaborates, “Haftel’s aide got sick and he called on someone else to organize tonight.”

“Well, whoever he chose, I’d bet good money they’re out of a job tomorrow,” Ellie grates. I haven’t seen her so annoyed in years. Never angry enough to speak her mind so clearly, at any rate. 

Jean-Luc raises an eyebrow. “I have to concur, I’m afraid. I had trouble getting in; apparently the guest list didn’t include me even though I’d been invited _and_ had répondé, too. Good thing I knew whom to contact, or I would have missed your entrance.” He bows to all of us, all charming smile. “I know the employer of the aide who stepped in,” he adds. “Which is why I’m quite certain that your bet is a sure thing, as they say.” Then he looks squarely at Ellie. “You understand that this is purely in the interest of keeping you appraised, but you could give me your contact data so that I can let you know.”

Oh, I know the way Ellie’s head perks up. Below our table, I bump my knee into her leg sharply, willing for her to read the ‘do it’ in my eyes. 

“Avec plaisir, Jean-Luc,” she tells him, mouth a-quirk, accompanied by an unvoiced ‘yes!’ from my part. “Oh, something else entirely – I hope you don’t mind, Kathryn, Jean-Luc, but Naomi has asked me to find Marie for a game.” I look at her, intrigued, but she just shrugs. So does Kathryn, when I turn my eyes to her, even if her eyes are dancing with laughter.

“Well, I’ll be seeing you, then,” I say, standing. “Ask Kathryn to dance, Jean-Luc – captain though she is, she’s completely capable of being led once in a-” I dance away myself, to get out of Kathryn’s arm’s reach.

* * *

“Now that is something you don’t often see,” Jean-Luc remarks quietly as Marie and her best friend leave. Kathryn turns to him, puzzled by his words, and realizes he isn’t looking at the two women at all, but at her. Frowning, she tries to remember what might have been written on her face as she’d watched them go, watched Marie bump Ellie’s hips, laugh, and take her arm in an obvious display of friendship.

“I beg your pardon?” she hedges. He could mean so many things, after all.

“I do realize that some counselors have a bit of a… an independent streak in their nature, but she truly merits the name, doesn’t she.”

“‘Irreverent Marie?’” Kathryn smiles. “Oh, you have no idea.”

“I guess I might, at that. Chatting up captains? Did she chat you up, too?” His eyes are glinting again, but apart from that he looks completely serious. 

Taking another sip to hide her blush, Kathryn realizes her glass is almost empty, but waves away his offer of a refill. “About that dance…”

He barks a laugh and rises, offering her his hand. “Avec plaisir, Catherine.” Then, with a wink, “One can express some things more easily when dancing, wouldn’t you agree?” His hand is sure when he leads her to the dance floor, sure when he swings her around to face him, sure when they join the Bolian Fox the band is currently sawing their way through. It helps her find her feet again, at any rate.

“Like mortification at seeing my partner chat up yet another captain, and Jean-Luc Picard to boot? Definitely.”

“Or amazement at seeing a captain have a partner at all. Although I’d wager your unique situation…” he stops himself. “I apologize, Kathryn. I didn’t want to bring up work. It’s made me a bit… melancholy, I suppose, seeing you laugh with her.” 

_So those rumors about him and his CMO…_ They take a few steps in silence. The Bolian Fox is quite a bit slower than its Earth counterpart, a fact that Kathryn, who honestly hasn’t the first idea of how to dance it, is eminently grateful for. As for Pica- _Jean-Luc’s_ dancing skill. 

“You know, I really don’t think I’m the right person to give relationship advice,” Kathryn says finally, quirking her lips, “I still-” a familiar whoop of laughter interrupts her train of thought, and actively keeping from looking where it originated almost makes her lose her step. If not for his arms, she would have, probably. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs reflexively, her eyes sweeping the surrounding crowd in a futile effort to spot Marie. 

“Don’t worry.” His smile is reassuring. “No harm done.” They’ve completed almost a full round of the dance floor when he goes on, “so where did Starfleet put you up, after you had to leave _Voyager_?”

His question startles her. “Hm? Oh, good gracious, I’m sorry, Jean-Luc. I guess I’m not a good dancing companion, tonight. Nor a good conversationalist. My mother would be terribly upset.”

“How about a quick stroll outside? It’s dry for once.”

“Please.”

He finds an exit, and behind that, a small balustraded terrace. “Well. No sauntering, then, but at least a bit of quiet,” he remarks, holding the door for her. “Good. A bit of quiet is…” Kathryn closes her eyes and bites the inside of her cheek. No. Not now. She can’t start bawling with Jean-Luc Picard standing behind her. 

“I’ll be back momentarily,” he excuses himself quietly. She hears his steps, the click of the door, music and a bout of laughter from inside, another click, and blessed silence. A few moments later, the sequence recurs in reverse order, and the fragrance of coffee, bitter, black, and deeply cherished, hits her nose. “God, thank you.” The first taste almost soothes the tears away, and he brought a napkin. Doesn’t even look askance, either, when Kathryn pats her eyes dry, keeping his on the night sky instead. “Tell me, though,” she looks at him over the raised cup, eyebrow perked, until he meets her gaze, “clairvoyant? Covertly telepathic?”

A quick smile flashes across his face, and he folds his arms, easing off one leg slightly. “I’ll admit to listening to rumors about your person.” 

“Oh?”

There’s a positively wicked gleam in his eyes when he answers. “Captain Kathryn ‘Do it’ Janeway. Punches her way through. Assimilated a Borg. Don’t get between her and her crew. Don’t ever give her substitute for coffee.” Good grief. Well, at least feeling awkward is better than feeling close to tears.

“I didn’t assimilate-” she breaks off. He knows. _He_ knows.

“I know.” Jean-Luc clears his throat and subjects one of the terrace’s planters to intense scrutiny, tugging at his lip. “Seven of Nine is… remarkable, quite in her own right. I do look forward to working with her.” 

“As does she,” Kathryn returns, back on solid ground again, “from what she told me.” She hesitates for a moment, debating with herself. She’d been wanting to speak to him all night – well, wanting and not wanting, true, but this opportunity is too good to let pass. She turns to face him more fully. “Jean-Luc, I appreciate that you didn’t want to bring up work earlier, but…”

“You hate it, don’t you,” he replies when her words dwindle into silence, then finally removes his gaze from that goddamn plant box and meets her eyes. “The way they pick over every single one of your decisions, and fail to grasp the situation you were in.”

She hadn’t thought he’d catch on so quickly. “You _are_ a telepath.”

“Forty-five years as a captain.” He smiles. “I’ve had my share of hearings.”

“Forty-” Kathryn swallows dryly, and his smile gains a different quality. “Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ve been assured that I don’t look a day older than a hundred and fifty.” His eyes grow serious again. “Pippa Louvois is… fair. Dedicated to the truth, the deeper truth. And zh’Kothe is a… desk jockey.” 

Kathryn can’t help but smile at his description of the prosecutor. “I suppose I could have done worse with Louvois. She has a mean poker face, though. I have no idea which way she’s headed.” 

Jean-Luc Picard looks at her with those clear eyes of his, dark grey instead of hazel, out here in the moon’s light. “Do _you_ think your actions were right?”

 _Damn him._ “I…” _The truth, Janeway._ “There are a few… decisions I would have made differently, in hindsight.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he corrects her gently. 

His words coax a terse smile from her. “I’ve been told repeatedly not to second-guess myself so much.” _Not enough._ She takes a deep breath, _willing_ him to understand, _anyone_ to understand. “Jean-Luc, I had no admiralty to turn to for orders, no outside sounding board, sometimes not even the option of talking things through with my senior officers. In the end, I had to make every single one of my decisions alone.” _Bear the responsibility, alone. And live with the outcome, alone._ A familiar act of will banishes that particular darkness. “I do think some of these can be seen as… debatable, even wrong, had they occurred here, within reach of communication or back-up. But I also think I made each and every call I made to the best of what I knew at the time. And each and every one, I made to protect my crew in hostile territory. How _dare_ zh’Kothe-” Kathryn stops herself in time, mouth turned sharply downwards. “If I hear him say ‘dereliction of duty’ one more time I swear I’ll tear one of his antennae off, and to hell with the ramifications.”

The spark of amusement in Jean-Luc’s eyes is reassuring, as are his next words. “Well, that’s it, then, isn’t it. You’re certain what you did was the right thing at the time. It’s been my experience-” Kathryn remembers some of the charges he’d been up against, and nods her understanding, “-that even admirals take that into account.”

“I know it won’t be my Starfleet I’m leaving if they don’t.” The bitterness in her words shocks even her, just as the fact she’s uttered them at all. 

His eyebrows reveal his surprise. “Resignation?”

“Sounds better than ‘dishonorable discharge’, doesn’t it.”

He blows out a breath softly. “Have you told anyone?” When Kathryn shakes her head mutely, a corner of Jean-Luc’s mouth comes up. He squares his shoulders and clasps his hands behind his back – she’s seen Owen Paris do it, and her father, and recognizes the impulse she herself so rarely fights, certain his hand would be on her arm or shoulder if they knew each other for longer than half an hour. 

“Don’t, then,” he goes on with quiet emphasis. “I don’t think things will come that far, even if I certainly understand the impulse. I’ve had a number of moments like that, too,” he elaborates when her head comes up sharply. His arms unclasp, and he ends up with them folded and one hand stroking his mouth, hiding a – smile? “Each time they offer me the bars, I feel torn between my love for the captain’s chair and my desire to clean up behind those office doors.” He almost chuckles at the look on her face. “Come now, Kathryn. Forty-five years as a captain? That doesn’t just happen. Oh no. I turned them down more times than Will Riker turned down captaincy. I’m just not that notorious for it.”

“I guess not,” Kathryn replies weakly. William T. Riker, EXO; the eternal first officer, and by choice, too – it’s made the rounds, of course. But no one she’d heard talk about it had ever spared a thought about how long, or often, his CO had held on to his chair. 

“Frankly,” he goes on in that clipped, smooth accent of his, “I can only spend so much time here until I’m getting the urge to yank some antennae of my own. That’s why I leave for those deep-space missions, you know? Saving the galaxy is only an added bonus – really, I do it out of consideration for internal security.”

“Reassuring.” Her gravelly drawl makes his smile come out at last. “I’ve been thinking about what I’d do if they offered me a promotion, you know.” To his raised eyebrows, “well, it is one possible outcome, and I like contingency plans.”

“And…?” he prompts her when she doesn’t go on.

“Well, I haven’t really decided yet. I’ve come to like my chair.” They share a knowing smirk. “I can’t decide whether leaving space behind would make me sing praises or start going after antennae again myself.” She huffs, softly, not quite a sigh. “But as you said, Marie’s not Starfleet. Sitting behind a desk would mean I could go home to her afterwards. I never thought that I would think that way, but… the thought _is_ there, you know.”

“I see.” His smile isn’t amused so much but understanding, now. “You do have a sounding board for that decision, though.”

“Marie? I can’t-”

He interrupts her with a quick shake of his head. “Bad idea, I quite agree. But I’ve been hearing you were assigned a counselor.”

“Commander Troi, yes. She-” _oh._ “Oh.”

“Kathryn.” This time, it’s his eyes that bore into hers as though willing her to understand something. “I’ve known Deanna Troi for over a decade. Her service record doesn’t begin to do justice to her professionalism, her dedication and her compassion. I’m sure you feel just as enthusiastic about being counseled as I did, in the beginning, but… I urge you to trust her.” He doesn’t add ‘I do’; he doesn’t need to, does he.

“She’s evaluating me for the court-martial, Jean-Luc.”

The glint is back in his eyes. “Is that what it says on her assignment?” 

“I actually don’t recall right now, but she never implied-”

“Oh, she wouldn’t. I’ve never known a more patient person than Deanna Troi – and she must be, considering her mo-” he swallows whatever he was about to say and smiles crookedly. “She’s usually content to let you pick your own pace, take up her offer at your own discretion. But she’ll take to guerilla counseling if she thinks you need it, and I personally wouldn’t let it come that far.”

“Guerilla counseling?” 

“Better not ask.”

“Independent streak, right?” He nods, eyes dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Tu es Français?_ \- You're French? (informal mode of address, too)
> 
>  _Oui, mademoiselle._ \- Yes, Miss
> 
>  _Je m’appelle Marie._ \- My name's Marie
> 
>  _Enchanté, Marie. Un nom joli, ça – ma belle-sœur s’appelle Marie, aussi._ \- pleased to meet you, Marie. A pretty name, that - my sister-in-law is called Marie, too.
> 
>  _Premier fois quelqu’un prononce mon nom correctement, et c’est un Français. Mais, Jean-Luc, sois patient avec moi, je ne suis pas Française, moi._ \- First time someone pronounces my name correctly, and it's a Frenchman. But, Jean-Luc, be patient with me, I'm not French, myself.
> 
>  _Jamais._ \- Never.
> 
>  _Alors, Marie mystérieuse, d’un âge incertain, d’une origine inconnue – voulez-vous danser?_ \- Well, mysterious Marie of uncertain age and unknown origin - do you want to dance? (Formal mode of address)
> 
>  _Avec plaisir, monsieur._ \- With pleasure, sir.
> 
>  _Mais je ne suis pas étrangère, Jean-Luc._ \- But I'm no stranger, Jean-Luc.
> 
>  _Mais bien sur, Jean-Luc._ \- But of course, Jean-Luc.
> 
>  _Pareillement, Monsieur Jean-Luc._ \- Likewise, Mister Jean-Luc.


	7. Reaching out (end of June)

Kathryn seems different tonight. Enough so that I take notice, at least. Buzzing with nervous energy, she upsets her glass and almost drops her fork off the table, too. I’ve never seen her so clumsy before.

“Care to tell me?” I ask when we’ve cleared the table and are back on the – well, _I’m_ on the sofa. She’s pacing. Oh, she’d say she’s just looking for something to do, but what she _is_ , is pacing.

“Hm?” She turns to me, her loose, thigh-length cardigan swinging with the motion. “Oh. Um, I had an appointment with Commander Troi today.”

“I know,” I reply to that, then look more closely at her. “Not for your court-martial assessment, though, I’d say?”

She blushes, then comes over, sitting down opposite me, on an easy chair. “I…” she reaches out for my hand, and it makes me sit up and blink. What the-? “Marie,” she goes on when she has it, “I realize this is… hard, for you.” Both her squeeze and her raised other hand stop my protest. “I do. You’ve been… God, Marie.” She lets go and jumps up again, coming to rest a few feet away from me, hands cusped around her neck, staring out of the window of our Starfleet apartment at darkening San Francisco dusk. I rise, more slowly than she did, and walk over until I’m behind her, until I can put my arms around her. Her head comes back until it rests against my chin, and when I kiss her hair, her arms fall down and cover mine.

“Pillar of strength,” she whispers. 

“M-hm.” My hum, as my smile, transmits itself to her scalp. Up close like this, I can see the few strands of grey that have turned up in the last weeks. Oh, how she’d cursed. In Klingon, too.

“You said they have needs, too.” 

Is she crying? Her breathing is quite regular, but her voice sounds constricted. I pull away and tug at her hands to turn her to me. Not crying. Not yet. But close. “True. But the needs of this particular one are met at the moment, Kathryn.”

“Are they?” Her eyes meet mine for a heartbeat before she looks away again. “Commander Troi and I’ve been talking about other things than just my command decisions.” It comes out in a rush. “It’s been a start, and… oh, but I’m going at this backwards.”

“Carts and horses?” I smile at her when she doesn’t go on, and she nods, still not looking up. _Patience, Vey._

“I’ve never liked how some couples… you know, where one partner always has dinner on the table and the kids’ hands washed when the other comes home… And now I’m doing the same thing, aren’t I? Come back home and settle into the comfort you provide.” How she scowls at herself. 

“I do realize it sounds unrealistic,” I tell her when nothing more is forthcoming, “but I really would tell you if I weren’t okay with this arrangement.”

The frown stays, but her eyes are questioning. “Unrealistic?”

“Well, you don’t have anything but my word for it,” I shrug with a smile. “It’s never come up, so there’s no evidence.” It’s not enough, though. “Don’t tell me you’ve found another thing to beat yourself up for, please, or I’ll have to have a talk with this Commander Troi.”

“Well, excu-”

I kiss her protest away. “Kathryn. Look, we… You are giving me all you can give. I _know_ that. You’re home every night, and you let me care for you; I need that, however inverted it might sound. You let me take your mind off things, and trust me to know when to do that, too. We spend so many weekends at your mother’s, and talk and hang out and relax, and it does me a world of good to see you laugh.” This time, it’s a tear that I kiss away. 

“This isn’t how I’d imagined this.” She sniffs deprecatingly. “I hope it doesn’t sound unrealistic when I tell you it’s not going to stay like this, either.”

“We won’t spend the weekends in Bloomington anymore? The kids will hate that.”

She swats me. “Marie! I’m trying to-” she breaks off. “I’ll make it up to you. I pro-”

“Don’t,” I chide her, a finger across her lips. “Don’t promise. Just…” I grin, “do it.” 

I catch another swat for it. Then she joins my grin. “How long have you been waiting to say that to me?”

“Ages,” I sigh, and start swaying slightly to the music in the background, her choice for once. Something Vulcan, I can recognize that much by now.

“An agreement, then, if not a promise?” she asks, moving with me, hands coming up to cusp my neck, now.

“Depends on what you have in mind,” I tell her lightly.

“I can’t deny how much it helps, what you do.”

“Well, thank you. That was the point, after all.” 

She tugs at a strand of my hair. “I’m trying to thank you, love.” Pulls away to look at me and smiles that smile I would conquer the world for, and doesn’t care a jot how I go weak at the knees of it. “You’re very much appreciated.” 

I match her tone. “You’re very, very welcome.” Our kiss is a promise, though, in a way. It’s starts out as one, at least. I break away, remembering. “That agreement?”

She’s a bit breathless. And flushed. _Countenance, Vey._ “You really… are you really able, and willing, to go on like this, for… for the time we…” 

Giving her a smile of my own is easy. “Yes, Kathryn.” Giving her a shorter kiss than the one before, not so much. “Yes, I am. For the time being. I know this is transient, and when external circumstances-” she scowls at the expression, “-change, we’ll redefine. Was that the sort of agreement you had in mind?”

“Yes.” Her kiss is sweet – and about as hungry as I feel about kissing her back.


	8. Rumor has it (August 4th)

“Any news?” Phoebe asks when Ellie and I step inside. I grin at her other over the heads of two kids assaulting me. She’s quick to send them back outside to play, though, so that we can talk. Alright, gossip. She’s as much of a hog for it as I am, as Ellie is. As Kathryn is, too, if she allows herself to be. She didn’t come with us because, once more, her hearing is taking longer than expected. It’s happened before, and we’ve agreed to meet here whenever it does. Kathryn doesn’t want us to miss these Friday night dinners on her account. And if for nothing else, I love Gretchen Janeway for the fact that she includes Ellie every time.

“Did you hear about Seven and Chakotay?” Ellie asks back, eyes afire. A wedding. In the middle of all this muddle, a wedding, and how it had taken Kathryn’s mind off things when she’d been asked to perform it. God, but I hate that her court-martial is still not through. And even though we’re spending every weekend here in Bloomington, the energy she finds in her family home, in her family’s presence, is replaced, by Monday, sometimes even Sunday evening, by a never-changing expression of grim determination. I do think her counseling sessions help, but they’re exhausting as well – of course they are. 

“Yeah, even we clinked glasses at that piece of news,” Phoebe replies. They know most of the senior officers by now, from visits and dinners and the like. Chakotay quite charmed Gretchen, in fact; and Phoebe and the Doctor… well, talk about a house on fire. Phoebe is as much a night owl as her sister is, and the Doctor plainly doesn’t need sleep, and their discussions sometimes seem to keep the whole house awake, they are so… vociferous. His instatement as a Federation citizen with all rights and duties had been another cause for celebration, right here in this living room. Which means that by now it’s only Kathryn who’s still under scrutiny. And I still don’t have the slightest clue what’s going on in there, and it bugs me rotten. “So, what have you heard?” Phoebe asks me, on cue.

“Nothing we haven’t heard before.” To judge by the way Phoebe’s eyes light up, _she_ has something new, though. 

“I’ve heard something delicious,” she confirms. “Strictly confidential, of course,” she looks at Ellie and me and we nod and grin.

“Of course.” It’s why she’s telling us, after all. “Spill.”

“Well, Unre tells me that Deanna-” and the fact that Phoebe calls Commander Troi by her given name reminds me again how close-knit the ex-pat Betazoid community on Earth is, “-has been approached if she wouldn’t like to serve as first officer on a diplomatic round trip. You know, visiting members and allies, to reaffirm relations after the war, re-negotiate treaties and the like.”

A diplomatic mission – would make sense to have a first officer who’s a trained counselor, ambassador’s daughter, and member of Picard’s senior staff. “Holding hands, eh?” Ellie echoes my thoughts.

Phoebe nods. “They’re scheduling at least two years for the whole mission, with stopovers on Earth after each visit – debriefings, taking on experts for the next trip, things like that. And they’ve told Deanna, captain’s approval pending, that she might be allowed to bring her wife and children; I guess you present a far less hostile profile when you show up with kids hanging off your neck, right?” 

A wife? Kids? I hadn’t known that. “I guess so. So…?” Why’s she telling us this?

“Well.” She might as well have said ‘duh’, for the tone of her voice, and I grin again. “Guess whose name is on the shortlist for captain?”

I finally catch on. “Kathryn.”

“Yup.” Phoebe grins, too. 

Would make sense to have a captain like Kathryn on a mission like this, too. A captain who’s renowned for consideration, compassion, and uncommon solutions. A captain who has proven over and over again that she’ll uphold and defend Federation principles because she wholeheartedly believes in them, a captain whose dedication to the organization she represents has inspired people in two quadrants. A captain whose honor and valor have become almost proverbial, at least that’s what the press would have us believe these days. Half of them, anyway.

It would mean a tremendous vote of confidence, though. And a sound defeat, hell, no, a slap in the face of everyone who’d shouted for her head. Again, Ellie thinks along the same lines. “Do you really think they have a large enough power base to pull it off?” she asks Phoebe. “I can’t see Haftel going for it, and certainly not Shelby.” 

“It’s pushing things, that much is certain,” Phoebe replies. “But what with the pressure to appease everyone who feels threatened, this way or that, by how the War played out, there are quite a few voices who call for a nice-guy approach instead of doing things martinet style. Doves rather than hawks, you see. And they need recruits,” she grins, suddenly, “so they’re sending their goodwill diplomat in a famously battle-proven ship, with the most advanced weapons and defense systems the quadrant has ever seen.”

“ _Voyager_ ,” I realize. Kathryn Janeway flying in with _Voyager_ will certainly whet people’s appetite for adventure, but would she like it? _Price horses_ , my memory supplies, and I’m pretty certain she wouldn’t. But orders are orders, and that’s one reason I don’t like organizations like that. “But they’re not even close to being through with examining the ship, though, as far as I know. And Kathryn’s court-martial-”

“-is drawing to a close,” Phoebe cuts in, wherever she has _that_ bit of information from. “And they want her. They need her. Picard won’t do it, and he’s found enough supporters for his claim that you can’t tie down the flag ship that way. And Katie’s more famous than he is by now, anyway, which is what the recruiters need.” 

“You’re quite well-informed for someone not Starfleet,” Ellie teases her.

“Well, having a telepath husband isn’t all bad, you know.” Phoebe gives us one of her saucy grins. “So what are _you_ going do until then, Marie? I don’t think the mission will start this year, you see; _Voyager_ still needs to be put back together again, and re-fitted, too. You need something to occupy your mind while Katie’s gone.” She takes a look at my puzzled face. “Come on, Marie – the examinations? The refit? You don’t honestly think Kathryn isn’t going to join them on Mars the minute she can. Her fingers are probably itching as it is.”

“True, I suppose,” I murmur, unsure how to answer her question. “Both the Department for Temporal Investigations and the Smithsonian have contacted me; Ellie, too. I think just answering their questions could take the two of us years. Tom’s holonovel project, too.”

“Just what exactly is up with that, anyway?” Phoebe asks, eyes afire with curiosity. “Not another _Voyager_ story, surely.”

“Oh, no. Quite apart from our media abstinence, _and_ the fact that the mission logs are still classified, the snafu with the Doctor’s novel would really dissuade anyone, right?” We share a shudder and a grin. “No, at first Tom and I had thought about adapting a few of the movies on your hard drive,” I nod to Ellie, who smiles back, “into holonovels, but then we realized the angle is a completely different one if you expect to interact with the program. So now we’re developing one that is set around the change of the millennium, but tells its own story. Actually, I’ve been wanting to tell you about this for days, Ellie – we could need your expertise, you see.” 

Ellie grimaces. “I’ll have to see where I can make time for that,” she replies.

Phoebe nods slowly. “That does sound like something one could spend years on. But it’s not social work, is it?” 

Ah, professions. Phoebe is a sculptor, and, as artists do, burns with the urge to express herself. Her works, both woodwork and stonework, are dispersed throughout the house and garden, in fact, and I like them; smooth, craggy, large and tiny, the Möbius band and other scientific intricacies a recurring theme. But social work isn’t art, far from it. I sigh, running my hands through my hair and leaning back in the sofa. “No, it’s not. But… I’m enjoying that, somehow. It’s nice to do without the kind of responsibility I had before, you know.”

“Oh. Alright then.” Phoebe’s eyes are solicitous enough to make me wonder if Kathryn has told her about what I used to do back home. Ellie certainly knows; her eyes are just as somber.

* * *

The sky is clear when they stroll outside after dinner, and Kathryn, leaning against a fence post, points out the Lunar cities to Marie, remembering a conversation on a balcony, not that long ago. 

“You looked so lonely that night.” Marie apparently remembers, too. “You wouldn’t believe how much I wanted to hug you.” 

Kathryn turns her head to regard her. “Why didn’t you, then?”

Oh, that smile. “Because you didn’t want me to, I could tell. You were holding yourself together with all you had; if I’d embraced you…”

Kathryn grimaces. “So instead you did what, minutes before, Ellie had told me you usually did for her – offering, and trusting me to take you up on it if I needed to. It was good to feel you standing behind me, you know.”

“She told you that, hm?” Marie’s tilted head conveys her amused surprise.

“Isn’t it what you do?”

“Mostly,” Marie shrugs. “Sometimes I take more initiative, though.”

“And sneak captains away to their families, conspiring with admirals to pry them loose.” 

“If necessary,” the younger woman agrees easily. Then, slipping her arms around Kathryn, “and it feels more appropriate to hug you now. We barely knew, back then, after all, and I can’t believe that’s been such a short time ago. Not even eight months, and yet I feel… I’ve never felt so comfortable around anyone, you know.” 

Wordlessly agreeing, Kathryn snuggles closer into that embrace. Then a shooting star makes Marie whoop and start to sing, about falling stars and never stopping falling in love, lips close enough to Kathryn’s temple to make her skin tingle, arms and hips swaying her in slow rhumba rhythm.

“You have a song for every occasion, don’t you?” Kathryn laughs when she finishes.

“Far from it. But that was too good to let pass, wasn’t it? Don’t you wish on shooting stars anymore, in the twenty-fourth century?”

Kathryn flicks a hand. “Oh, people certainly do.”

“But not Captain Kathryn,” Marie teases, a grin in her voice.

“It’s just a meteor. It can’t grant wishes.”

Marie laughs at the tone of Kathryn’s voice, just as intended. “True. But thinking about what you’d wish for is a good thing to do, regardless.” Then she plants a kiss on Kathryn’s temple. “What would you wish for, right now?”

“For this to be over. The court-martial, I mean,” Kathryn explains instantly, relaxing at Marie’s chuckle. “Sometimes I feel I’m flying apart from all of it,” she adds, glaring at remembered weakness.

“Well, why don’t you?”

“What? Marie, I can’t! I have a duty, and-”

“You do have a duty to yourself, too, you know.”

Kathryn grates her teeth, but then her shoulders drop. “That’s what Commander Troi tells me. And our sessions help.” She smiles wanly. “Really, I’m okay. I have a professional counselor and a personal one to look after me, after all, haven’t I?”

“Who both can’t do a thing if you keep things bottled up,” Marie says softly.

Kathryn turns to look at her. “I know that, Marie. Trust me, please. I’d tell you if something was wrong.” 

Marie’s eyes search Kathryn’s face. Then her frown relaxes, and she nods. “Alright.”

“That was quick,” Kathryn smiles. 

“You know best what’s going on inside you, after all. So, if you ask me to trust you, I do. I’m not saying it’s easy-” oh, the self-deprecating smile. Ellie’s words, said in a kitchen while doing dishes, reverberate in Kathryn’s memory again. “-but I’m resolved to try.”

Kathryn smiles and turns again, to look into the sky and lean into Marie’s embrace once more. “So what would _you_ wish for, then?”

“Time,” the younger woman answers instantly, and her arms tighten around Kathryn in time with a heart-felt sigh. “Time to spend with you. Without trials, or tasks, or comm. calls.”

Kathryn stiffens. “Marie, I-” she starts, and stops again when she gets kissed.

“That wasn’t an accusation, love. Things are as they are, and neither of us can change what we’re angry about. As long as we’re angry at the same things and not at each other, that’s okay, I think.” 

“I’d give you all the time I had, if I could.”

“You do so already,” and damn if there isn’t a smile in that sentence, too. 

“Marie, you… I…” _On, Janeway. Reach out – do it._ “I have a lot of accumulated leave, you know. We could go for a holiday, the two of us. Spend time together, like you said.”

“And I’d go with you in an instant, if I didn’t know how much you long to join the teams examining _Voyager_.”

“They managed without me so far, they can go for a few days longer.” Kathryn’s voice is gravelly, and she hates it, but Marie doesn’t seem to mind at all. Maybe she really does like Kathryn’s voice, just as she keeps saying. 

Her hands run up Kathryn’s back to grasp her shoulders and turn her around, making the two of them end up face to incredulous face. “You mean it.”

That wins her a slightly irritated frown. “Of course I do,” Kathryn tells her.

The smile that blooms on Marie’s face beggars, as they say, all description.


	9. Surprise (August 24th)

My Kathryn, an admiral. The youngest one ever, to boot. She’s been preening all week, with all due humbleness when people were looking, with a full-out strut when they weren’t, and sometimes even then. When those who were looking deserved it. Oh, my Kathryn. Walking on air, she is, and rightly so – her court-martial found her record, if not spotless, then at least not meriting of more than a hemming and a hawing and a ‘we’d done it differently, but it was you who was out there’. And a promotion. 

August 17th, 2378. Knowing that the sentence would be passed that day, we were all there: her former senior staff, Ellie, Admiral Paris and wife, Commander Troi, even Lieutenant Barclay, alternately gnawing on his fingernails and digging them into Troi’s arm. Me, too, of course. And when she’d come out of the room, Lindholm at her side, chin high and eyes a-gleam, I’d known, there and then, and I’d bet I hadn’t been the only one. For all that her poker face is better than mine, it’s nowhere near perfect. She’d been floating, and when she’d reached us, her lips had turned in that small, triumphant smile of hers and she’d opened the tight ball of her right fist to reveal her bars. The only one of us not exploding with joy had been Commander Troi – she had _reeled_ from the impact of our emotions.

Vice Admiral Kathryn Janeway had taken us all to dinner, in the fanciest restaurant San Francisco had to offer, and all heads had turned at our raucousness. God, but we had partied. Painted the town command red, and blue and golden and all sorts of colors. I hadn’t been good for anything for days. 

Then, two days later, Kathryn had told me about how Admiral Nechayev and President Zife had called her in. 

“Asking me, nice as you please, to pull their goddamn chestnuts from their goddamn fire,” she’d glared, then dipped her head to look at me from beneath her lashes. “Still, I couldn’t say no to my very first assignment as an admiral, could I?” She’d looked so anxious that I’d taken pity on her and told her I’d known. She’d been wise enough not to ask how, admiral that she is. “So we’re not going to see much of each nother over the next three months,” she’d gone on, confirming what Phoebe had said. “I’ll be commuting between Mars and here, to oversee the rest of the examinations, and the refit. Crew applications, too, probably. But I can’t take that trip every day, two hours coming, two hours going. I’d invite you to come with me, but you’d only sit around all day, I’m afraid. I mean, Tom and B’Elanna are there as well, but they’ll be just as busy as I, and access to civilians is restricted, at least to _Voyager_ -”

“It’s okay,” I’d interrupted her. I understood, after all, and I really had no wish to sit around all day. “Just how long will you be staying over there – the whole three months?”

“Oh, no, not by far,” she’d smiled, for the first time. “I’ve officially been ordered to take a five-day week, so we’ll have the weekends to ourselves.” Oh, how I’d pretended to be shocked, just to make her laugh again. She didn’t, though. No, she’d looked apprehensive. “Are you really alright with that?”

“No plasma storms between here and Mars, are there?” That had hit her. _Bad, bad joke, Vey._ I’d apologized instantly, adding that something like that wouldn’t happen twice to a person. “It’ll be alright,” I’d tried to reassure her. “I’ve got things to keep me occupied, and I’ll keep the weekends clear, and we’re going to be fine. And if it turns out I don’t like the arrangement, I can still come to Mars and while away my days there, ironing your uniforms.” 

She’d laughed at that, telling me no one ever ironed anything anymore these days when you can get anything fresh from a replicator; then I’d reminded her how I had indeed ironed her uniform, once, back in Cologne – the old one, anyway. I’m not quite resolved whether I like the new ones, but I’ll adapt, I guess. Her offer to take me to Mars and show me the shipyards on the promised vacation did wonders for my disposition, too.

The day before yesterday had seen the official press conference, or function, rather, complete with oceans of brass in dress uniforms, handshakes, and handing over of bars and medals. Oh yes, medals, and what a list of them, too. Tom had to explain their meaning to me, but once he did, I’d thought every single one completely appropriate. The Starfleet Medal of Honor, highest award available, given for ‘valor and bravery in action above and beyond the call of duty’. The Christopher Pike Medal of Valor, too, ‘in recognition of remarkable leadership, meritorious conduct and acts of personal bravery’. The Federation Star for Distinguished Service, to recognize Kathryn’s upholding of Federation and Starfleet values so far from their origins. 

Chakotay had been presented the Pike Medal, too, even though there had been a few sour faces at that. He’d opted for re-entry and had been affirmed in his rank of commander, that much I know, but apart from that, it’s anyone’s guess what he and Seven are, or have been, up to – and they hadn’t said anything, either. Both he and Kathryn had been awarded the Star Cross, too – quite a few crew members received that one as well, actually, just as Federation Medals of Honor, Cochrane Medals and diverse others. Quite a lot of promotions all around, too. Then Admiral Paris had announced that _Voyager’s_ crew as a whole would receive a Unit Citation – that had been new to me, that a whole unit could be honored that way. I’m pretty certain Kathryn had pushed for her crew to be recognized, both individually and as a whole, in order to let the brass pin any medals onto her in the first place. I think she had just about a pound of assorted metals on her when she left that conference room, but I do think she was proud. She has reason enough to be. 

Today, we’re off to Bloomington, but not on our own this time, oh no. No, the occasion calls for another big monster of a party, and Kathryn has invited everyone. And their brother. I’ve never seen anyone so graciously exasperated as Gretchen Janeway, watching the guest list grow longer by the minute. The _Voyager_ crew, obviously, and their spouses and children, or the species-related equivalent thereof. The Parises, of course, all three generations of them. Deanna and her wife and kids; and when Seven had asked if she could invite Picard again, of course Kathryn had nodded, too. Closure, for real, this time, much more than the reception in May was – oh, and I do look forward to dancing with Jean-Luc once more. 

The weather forecast is typical for an Indiana August; hot and humid. At least there’s no rain or storm announced. Still Gretchen had decided to put up marquees all over the lawn, to provide a bit of shade, and Phoebe had had a bad-pun field day until we’d all groaned whenever she’d so much as opened her mouth. Ellie had inserted herself into the Party Committee, too, begging leave off Ambassador Troi (who’d consented on the condition she be invited, which of course Kathryn had done – anything to have Ellen Will join in the organizing, she’d joked) and had practically moved into the family home for the last five days. 

I still think Ellie’s the only one aware (except maybe for Unre) that today’s my three-hundred ninety-ninth birthday, too. She’d offered, and I’d refused, to have it included it in the festivities. Kathryn certainly doesn’t know. Hell, she forgot her own birthday, how’ll she keep track of mine when I don’t think I ever told her the exact date?

I’ve dressed for the occasion, too, and not in the smoky grey I’d worn to the reception in May. Oh, no. I’ve got a whole summer full of Indiana weekends on my skin, and I’m dressed in brilliant white. A summer’s dress, too, tight bodice to show off what I have to show off up there, flowing skirt that starts at exactly the right point to show off what waist I can call my own – the dressmaker had certainly earned his credits again. A few dark brown wooden beads and shards of mother-of-pearl, a fitting necklace, and string sandals with more beads, and – alright. So I have colored, no – re-natured my hair. Tom had ratted on Chakotay doing it back in the Delta Quadrant, I’d plucked up enough courage to ask the commander about it after a while, and a few weeks ago, I’ve decided to follow his example. 

So. Dark curls, dark eyes, tanned, and clad in calypso white – I could be straight from the Caribbean, or a gypsy, or a pirate’s wife, I guess. Then Kathryn comes out of the bedroom and I have to keep from growling. God, those dress uniforms look sharp – _and_ she’s wearing the straight, ankle-length skirt that’s provided with them. Oh, but she looks gorgeous, and suddenly, I feel underdressed. Her smile when she sees me tells me I’ll do, though. Then she starts fumbling with her insignia until I flutter her hands away and affix the bars for her.

“Ready?” I ask her when I’m done, and she nods, holding out her arm to me. It’s six in the goddamn morning.

~~~

“Look at you beauties!” Gretchen Janeway claps her hands when she opens the door, then hugs us both at once. “Kathryn, are these the new… well, of course they are. My word, you look fantastic, the two of you. Come in, come in. No one’s here yet, except for the usual suspects. Breakfast?”

“Thanks, Mom,” Kathryn follows her in, “but we had breakfast already.”

“You really don’t leave home without it, do you?” Gretchen asks me over her shoulder, and I can hear her smile. “Even if it means getting up at five a.m.”

“Four thirty,” I yawn, and she laughs her clear, silver-bell laughter. 

“Poor dear. _You_ insisted on a daylight party, though, the two of you.”

“I swear Kathryn did that to spite me.” I swerve to evade the slender hand that comes a-sailing towards me, catch it and kiss it. “No, really, Gretchen, I’m alright. I even think I’ll make it through the day.”

“We’ll see,” Kathryn’s mother says mysteriously, turning towards us in front of the living-room fireplace. “You see, I, that is, we… Well.” Phoebe’s already there, Unre, too, both leaning against the mantelpiece. Ellie comes in carrying two cups of coffee, one of which promptly ends up in Kathryn’s possession. And then who walks in behind her but Tuvok and Chakotay, both holding steaming cups of their own?

“Tuvok!” Kathryn rushes forward, but stops herself at the last possible moment, for all that she hasn’t seen him since May. “Does this morning find thee well?” It sounds ritualized, somehow, and the look that passes between them seems to hold more than simple joy at a reunion between friends, even if one of them had been on Vulcan all summer. My thoughts jump back to the mental image of Tuvok with another Admiral Janeway. Hadn’t Kathryn’s older self implied…?

“It does indeed, Kathryn.” His voice is as dry as ever. “Please accept my apology for not being present last week, and the sincerest greetings of my wife and family.” 

Kathryn gracefully inclines her head, eyes sparkling. Then Chakotay gets both his hug and the one she couldn’t give Tuvok, to judge by the way his eyes bulge. It’s amazing how she can pull that off with a full cup of coffee in her hand, too. “Where’s Seven?” she asks when she pulls back.

“On a last-minute errand of her own,” he smiles. “The two of us and Tuvok arrived already yesterday, and your mother was kind enough to put us up for the night. You weren’t joking, Kathryn, neither about her hospitality nor about her brownies.” 

She levels a finger at him. “I never joke about my mother’s brownies, Mister.” 

“And with good reason,” Gretchen adds. Then she clears her throat in a very familiar fashion and Chakotay straightens, almost unconsciously. A smile assaults me, and I give in. “Actually, daughter mine, I’ve asked all of them to come a little early.”

Kathryn’s eyes, roving the assembly of familiar faces, narrow as she lowers the cup without having even taken a sip. My good old Manual of Facial Expression yells to take cover, quick!, but her glare isn’t directed at me now, is it. “What’s this, now?”

“Well, you see… Marie,” Gretchen turns to me, suddenly, and I can barely suppress what would have been a very unladylike ‘huh?’ before she goes on, “I told you before, but I want to repeat it – you’re making my daughter very happy, and her mother right along. I feel we’ve become good friends over the summer, and I hope you feel the same way.” I nod, mutely. “So…” she goes on, “I’ve been thinking about what Kathryn told me on your first visit, you know. About what you left behind. Your friends, your parents – I know,” she holds up her hands, and it’s uncanny, _uncanny_ , the similarity of the gesture, “I know you weren’t close to them. But I do hope you feel part of this family by now.” She smiles at me, all invitation and welcome.

I can’t help myself. First I stare, then I swallow, then my sight blurs. I manage another nod, but it’s quite, quite shaky. “I do.” My voice, too.

“Now these,” Gretchen Janeway’s smile turns wicked as she points a finger at me, “are words I want to hear repeated.” And she holds out her other hand, closed around something, to her eldest daughter. Kathryn reaches for it unthinkingly, then gasps when whatever was in mother’s hand drops into daughter’s. 

“Mom…” Funny how two little rings can quite overcome a starship cap- sorry, a vice admiral. Although, truth be told, my heart is beating wildly, too.

“I realize this might be irregular, but, daughter mine, I can pull off the odd surprise move of my own, and since your experiences with prior engagements weren’t exactly blissful, I’m urging you to keep this one as brief as possible.” She smiles brilliantly at her daughter’s bewildered face. “Chakotay here assures me he’s qualified in more ways than one to perform a wedding.”

“Stealth wedding,” he adds, with a full-blown, dimpled smile of his own. 

“And on top of it, I do want Marie to really be a part of this family, so, Katie dear, unless you want me to adopt her,” Gretchen grins, nudging her daughter closer to me, “do it.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Kathryn finally manages.

“When we come to the ‘I do’s, yes,” Chakotay says in his best unruffled voice, and I chortle.

“But I haven’t even asked-”

“Well then-” his grin grows even wider, and I know what’s coming (again), and crow when it does, “do it.”

“But-” She looks at Tuvok, eyes almost pleading for a Vulcan voice of sanity, or something.

“I would feel honored if you would consider me as your witness, Kathryn,” he says gravely, but his eyes dance as much as Vulcan eyes will. I throw a quick glance at Ellie, holding the same question, and her smile when she nods is just as radiant as that on every face in the room. Except for Tuvok’s, of course.

Kathryn is as flustered as I’ve never seen her. Then she rallies, takes a look at the rings again, and- oh, she’s dangerous. She knows full well that I can’t withstand that smile. God, she’s going to go with this, isn’t she? Is she? Am I? A stealth wedding, not even a year after we met? Are we even ready for this? 

She moves to where I stand, leans her head against mine, forehead against nose, so breathtakingly familiar. “They’ve planned this, the mutineers,” she murmurs, in that voice that has me just as helpless as her smile has, “for us. For you, to be part of this family. I bet they have contingency plans, too, for every conceivable eventuality. All that appears to be left to worry about is whether we want this.” She pulls away and looks up to me, grey-blue eyes fierce. “Do you want this, my Marie?” she asks, soft but clear. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes.” My reply is hoarser than I’d reckoned with. Instantaneous, nevertheless, and joyously, unthinkingly so. For some reason, I’m short of breath and wet of cheek. Dragooned or no, Kathryn Janeway has just asked me to marry her. “Yes,” I say again, more fervently, smile breaking out on my face like sunshine through clouds. “Yes!” This time, it’s a song, cut short when Kathryn kisses me.

It’s Phoebe who breaks the almost awed silence. “Well, right now, or later today?”

~~~

I’m glad we opted for later, even though it’s taken a bit of the shotgun magic away. It has given Seven the time to return with floral arrangements – command red, all of them (but of course), a small one to be worn with a dress uniform, a larger one to be worn in front of a white summer dress (which Ellie, since it had been basically her creation, had been able to describe to the florist in excruciating detail), three identical ones to be worn by bridesmaids – Seven and Ellie and Phoebe, and what a strange and beautiful combination, too. 

It’s given both Kathryn and me time to come to terms with the idea of getting married, too, time to test it, poke it, taste it. To reaffirm our impulses with as much careful consideration as you can come up with, flooded on endorphins. It’s given us time to try on the rings, too, quickly and with much self-consciousness – Phoebe and Ellie have done good work, though, both size-wise and… well. To say the rings are beautiful would be like saying Eiffel Tower is a steely spike in France. They are perfect. White gold rather than yellow, as that color looks better on either of us, already engraved with today’s date and two sets of initials (they must have been ever so confident, but then again, of course they had been), and adorned with two small diamonds each, perfectly circular and just barely touching. 

“Side by side, and both radiant in their own right,” Phoebe had explained. I’d liked that enormously. I like our rings enormously. I like Phoebe e- alright. So I’m getting carried away. But how can’t I, when I hear the guests milling around outside, when Kathryn frowningly muses over her wedding vows, when I’ve just finished mine? When music is playing from somewhere, music I’m certain Ellie has chosen, music that fits so incredibly well… Agnostic that I am, I wouldn’t want Christian hymns, and she knows it. And I don’t think Kathryn is much the believer, either. But the Carmina? Secular songs, more than a millennium old, at the wedding of a forty-two year old scientist to a three-hundred ninety-nine year old agnostic? Hell yes. 

The calm quiet of the first song Ellie’s chosen leads people to their places, the glorious exuberance of the next lets them know what’s to come. Kathryn chuckles and I realize I’m singing along. Gloriantur indeed. But again, how can’t I, when I do feel like glorying? Then Ellie comes to pull me away. “One thing-” I beg her to wait a moment and turn to my wife-to-be, “-turn off your UT. Please.” She frowns, but humors me, and I’m whisked away. 

I’m certain Ellie has things well in hands, consummate party planner that she is – even when I’ve never known her to organize a wedding, and a same-sex one, too. Much as I appear to be the bride, for example, it’s me who’s led to stand in front of Chakotay, Ellie at my side, waiting for Kathryn’s entrance. And much as I’m not Gretchen’s daughter, Kathryn’s mother moves to stand beside me, and it fills my heart that she does.

Then, after a pause, the speakers ring with tambourines, and Naomi, Naia, Ennin and the neighbors’ kids start with the second verse of the Grocer’s Song, and I’m simply blown away by the beauty of it and by how much thought everyone has put in this. Ellie – God, how I love her – takes the chorus, and I provide harmony to her and hum along on the low parts of the song, because, again, how can’t I? The little children’s choir is so sweet that it has lots and lots of smiles blooming, and the lyrics are completely appropriate, too. More so when Kathryn appears at the back of the crowd and Ellie launches into Stands A Girl. Oh, Kathryn’s tunic isn’t red, but her face is radiant, heavens yes, and Ellie’s clear voice caresses the song so superbly – oh, but I love every second of what is happening. 

My Kathryn stands so proudly that she seems inches taller, or maybe she’s just levitating, buoyed by love as much as I am. Tuvok at her side is calm and dignified as only a Vulcan can be, and Seven and Phoebe frame them in a picture of contrasts. They’re both wearing white sheath dresses, complementing Kathryn’s and Tuvok’s attire, but apart from that, the differences between the two couldn’t be more pronounced – small and strong to tall and slender, red unruly curls to soft blond waves, one face shining with elation, the other composed but no less joyful. 

When a flute sounds, next, I realize this is Ellie’s gift to me – she knows that this has ever been my favorite piece, and now I sing my Kathryn to me with it, my voice soaring with emotion. The first two lines are mine alone, but when I hear Ellie take a deliberate breath behind me, I switch to harmony on the repeat. Kathryn’s eyes widen at how well our voices harmonize, but really, it’s not our first duet, is it. The song’s lyrics are Middle High German; Kathryn can’t have much of a clue of what we’re singing, which is exactly why I’ve asked her to turn off the UT, so that she’ll follow the song’s emotion, not its text. I do hope my eyes are eloquent enough. The tears in hers when she arrives at my side seem to say so.

“Friends!” Chakotay’s voice is warm and full of joy. My willful thoughts hop somewhere completely inappropriate, I swallow a chortle, and Kathryn looks at me, mystified. I can’t react, though, because he’s already going on. “Today we’re gathered for the most joyous reason of all – two of our number have decided not only to go through life together, but to make it official.” To think he was jealous when he met me – nothing left of it, in his words, his voice, his eyes. “I’ve been at Kathryn Janeway’s side for quite a while,” he continues, “and I’ve seen her stern and gentle, poker-faced and overcome, steel-bunned and with her hair down-” Tom whoops, and a laugh runs through the crowd when first his father, then his wife cuff him, “-but I’ve never seen her as happy as today, when she asked and Marie said yes. 

“Oh, yes, my friends,” he grins, “the proposal is barely a few hours old. We all know, after all, just how patient Kathryn Janeway can be – I marvel that she waited until we’re all here, you know.” Kathryn doesn’t even glare at him, but laughs along. “Now, let me explain how I see these two, in time-honored words of a pioneer in her own right, a woman as free-spirited, stubborn, and dedicated as Marie Vey and Kathryn Janeway.” He looks at us so very fondly, taking out and unfolding a sheet of paper. 

“A good relationship,” he begins to read, “has a pattern like a dance and is built on some of the same rules. The partners do not need to hold on tightly, because they move confidently in the same pattern, intricate but gay and swift and free, like a country dance of Mozart’s. To touch heavily would be to arrest the pattern and freeze the movement, to check the endlessly changing beauty of its unfolding. There is no place here for the possessive clutch, the clinging arm, the heavy hand; only the barest touch in passing. Now arm in arm, now face to face, now back to back – it does not matter which. Because they know they are partners moving to the same rhythm, creating a pattern together, and being invisibly nourished by it. The joy of such a pattern is not only the joy of creation or the joy of participation, it is also the joy of living in the moment.” 

He winks at Kathryn, dimples showing, and goes on, “When you love someone, you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It is an impossibility. It is even a lie to pretend to. And yet this is exactly what most of us demand. We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity – in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern.”

Putting the paper away, he goes on, “some people might think it strange to speak of freedom at a wedding-” his words win another laugh from the audience, but his eyes are quite serious, “-but this is what I would give you, to take along on your journey. That you shall freely accept each other’s love as you find it, as you find each other, as you find yourselves. That you shall feel you belong to each other, but not feel owned. That each shall continue to grow, but not at the other’s cost. That your dance shall exult both in your individual patterns and in the one you create together.” 

A tear trickles down Kathryn’s cheek, and I’ll admit to blinking to keep mine from spilling, too. He couldn’t have met my definition of love and relationship better if he’d read my mind. I wonder if Ellie had a hand in this; Chakotay doesn’t know me that well, does he?

“As we all know,” he says in a lighter voice, “a wedding is a public statement of a very specific intent. That’s why I’ll ask you now to reaffirm what you said earlier today, just for the record, and to be on the safe side.” Again, people chuckle, and Chakotay’s dimples are showing, too. Then his voice grows gentle, if no less carrying. “Marie Vey, are you willing to take Kathryn Elizabeth Janeway to be your wedded wife?”

His quickness startles me, and that makes Kathryn smile, and that, in turn, helps me find my feet again. “Yes.”

“Kathryn Elizabeth Janeway, are you willing to take Marie Vey to be your wedded wife?”

“I am.”

He nods, and his smile grows, if at all possible. “We heard you,” he proclaims, spreading his hands and looking at the guests, and the crowd roars their approval. “We all will hold you to the vows you’re about to make, and we all will help you keep them. If anyone present knows of a reason why these two people should not be joined in their love, let them speak now, or forever hold their peace.” He waits for a heartbeat, and another, and his dimples appear again. “And a good thing, too. Now, I’ve seen the two of you scribbling away, so it’s time to bring out what you penned. Marie, will you start?”

I turn to my Kathryn, swallowing to clear my throat, and take the slip of paper Ellie passes over. Yes, I asked her to bring it – this is the one occasion in my life where I don’t want my abysmal memory to make a mess of things. “Kathryn,” I begin, butterflies running riot in my stomach, “you changed my life in so many ways, and for each, I’m grateful.” Oh yes, no matter how stunned she looks. “A few months ago, you didn’t ask me, you couldn’t ask me, but if you had, I’d have given you the same answer I gave you this morning. Yes, I want this. And I can’t perceive of a thing you could ask of me that I would not do.” I take a breath, then go on, “this is a time for promises, for vows. And I’d like nothing better than to swear I’ll love you forever, but I know you’ll understand why I don’t.” Her smile tells me yes, and I simply don’t care what our audience makes of my refusal. “I _do_ promise this, though, to you, today: I’ll listen with openness and speak with honesty. I’ll act with consideration and react with understanding. I’ll never give less than my all, and I’ll never ask for more than you’ll give.” I let the note flutter away and take her hands in mine. Then, “I love you,” I tell her, from the deepest, fullest bottom of my heart.

Looking down at our intertwined hands, she takes a shaky breath, collecting her composure. Another breath, and her eyes find mine, radiant as I’ve never seen them. “Marie – my irreverent, laughing, wonderful Marie.” No, she doesn’t need a note. And I wouldn’t relinquish her hands even if she did. “I could list a thousand words,” she goes on, “and they couldn’t begin to explain what I see in you. I could quote a thousand poets, and they couldn’t begin to describe how I cherish you. And yet without their help, how can I ever tell you what you mean to me, what I want to promise you today, in front of our friends and family?” She wins laughter with her words, her quick, wry glance heavenwards. “So I’ll stick to what I know how to say, and I’ll trust you to know the whole of it, intention, decision, and promise; as you’ve done from the beginning, as I hope you’ll ever do. I love you, Marie.” 

We could be alone for all I register of the crowd’s second roar of approval. Then, after a heartbeat, Chakotay raises his eyebrows and looks pointedly at our still entwined hands. I turn to Ellie and she points me to sweet little Ennin, who’s holding the ring cushion with the fierce concentration of a four-year-old kid who knows his role is pivotal. He beams when I pick the smaller ring and return my eyes to my Kathryn.

“I, Marie Vey, take you, Kathryn Elizabeth Janeway-” curious, how even my voice is, belying the turmoil inside. Curious how the words return to me, my note forgotten on the breeze. “-to be my wife, my friend, my partner. Side by side, leading and following, laughing and crying, I put no restrictions on my love, no conditions, no bounds. As endless as this band, I hope our love will be, and I will do what I can to make it so.” A burst of merriment from behind us, quickly shushed, almost distracts me as I slip the ring over Kathryn’s finger. Her breaths are shallow, though, and, behind her smile, teeth clench and more tears threaten. Then she dips her head to take the other ring from Ennin’s cushion and regards it for a moment, again fighting for calm, I guess.

“I, Kathryn Elizabeth Janeway-” her voice is warm and low, and still it carries to the very skies. No gravel, no grating. Huskiness, yes. Emotion, yes. Love. Yes. “-take you, Marie Vey, to be my wife, my friend. My partner.” Alright, so we concerted this bit. Still, when her eyes come up to me and she goes on with the same words I used, _that_ is not pre-arranged. Kathryn Janeway speaks to me of unconditional love, and both her voice and her eyes are clear as the morning air while she does. She’s airlocking that safety catch, and in front of everyone. I barely notice her slipping the ring onto my finger. Barely notice Chakotay declaring us wed. 

I do notice her kissing me, brief though she keeps it. Then music swells up, and The Balance of My Feelings is mine again. I have to go an octave below the notes, certainly, but I dare anyone, _anyone_ else to sing it, and the only one who could knows fair well to keep her silence. Love shines from my eyes, radiant enough to light up my entire world, which, at this moment, consists of one woman, kissing me again because I’ve finished serenading her. 

The children set in again while we go on obliviously, launching into The Joyful Time with the Doctor coming in on the baritone parts. I join him, because the words express so well what I feel, and I laugh when the congregation, sheet music in hand wherever it comes from, joins the final repeat of the refrain, laugh and lift my wife and turn her in a circle and kiss her again and laugh. Then another voice soars, clear and impossibly high, heavenwards like a skylark’s song – but I know those words by heart, too, and they never rang so true. Yes. Yes. And thrice yes. And I know the song that is supposed to follow, but still, when all, all of us sing out to greet Venus Gloriosa, with a lovely twist to the lyrics, too, I can’t help but burst into tears, of joy, and love, and sheer exuberant bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wedding text of Chakotay's are excerpts from _Gift from the Sea_ by Anne Morrow Lindbergh.
> 
> The songs of the Carmina Burana are, in order of appearance: Veris leta facies – Ecce gratum – Cramer gip die varwe mir – Stetit puella – Chume, chum, geselle min – In trutina – Tempus est iocundum – Dulcissime – Ave formosissima. There is a lovely rendition of the full choral version on [Youtube](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEllLECo4OM) (link worked on August 6th, 2012, and it's up since 2008, but you never know). It's 1 hour and 11 minutes long - I'll wait for you to watch it, though, and this story won't go away until you return. The lyrics are on the 'Net, too ([here](http://www.classical.net/music/comp.lst/works/orff-cb/carmlyr.php), for example), in case you're interested, although a few of them make an appearance in the next chapter, because Kathryn is curious (but of course she is).


	10. Night

“This is so hard to believe,” Marie sighs, looking at her wedding band. Then, gloriously naked as she is, she turns to her belly and kisses Kathryn’s nose. “You’re my wife. I’m your wife. And all in the space of a few hours, too – stealth wedding, indeed.”

They’re in Kathryn’s old bedroom, and it feels so utterly, utterly strange – this is where little Katie spent her childhood. This is where Kath learned for her Academy entrance exams. This is where Phoebe upended a bucket of iced water over her sister. This is where, sometimes, half a galaxy away, Captain Janeway dreamed to wake up, and held on to that dream for as long as her eyes were still closed. This is not where Kathryn would ever have suspected spending her wedding night. 

Most of the guests are gone, home or in whatever beds they’ve found here. Most of the food is eaten, most of the marquees struck and packed away – not that either Marie or Kathryn had any chance to have a hand in that. No, they’d had their hands… _well._

“Considerable mutiny all around, I’d have to agree,” Kathryn, on her back and propped up on her elbows, growls lazily, then lets her head drop back to laugh. “I’d never thought I’d get married this way. And yet it was… perfect.”

“Yes.” Marie’s smile is brilliant.

Kathryn’s lips quirk. “Will you tell me now?”

Laughing eyes grow a little wild. “Huh?”

“What those songs were about,” Kathryn clarifies. 

“Oh!” Marie laughs. “Of course.” She turns, props herself up, too, and picks one of the larger PADDs off the bedside table. Taps in a few commands, oblivious to how Kathryn’s breath catches at seeing how expertly she handles it by now. “Didn’t you know them?”

“They sounded a bit familiar, but…” Kathryn shakes her head, sitting up to better look at the PADD, “no. I didn’t. And since you left me without the benefit of the UT – what was it you were singing?”

“Latin,” Marie grins.

 _Smarty._ “Well, _yes_ , I gathered that, but-”

“And Middle High German. Took Ellie ages, apparently, to transcribe it for the kids. I shudder to think how much planning went into all of this. And all while they were supposed to do important things.”

Kathryn heaves a sigh. “Marie, are you, at any time in the near future, going to-?”

“Here.” A lightning-quick grin, a final tap, and the PADD plays the first of the songs Kathryn remembers, a lilting, gentle song, like warm wind in the meadows. When the singers set in, the PADD’s display gives both lyrics and translation, and yes, indeed – both song and words capture spring eloquently, its softness, its promise. Then the more exuberant second song rings out; the one Marie sang along to, as she does this time around. But then it does fit her vocal range so well.

“Parts of these are really easy to translate, aren’t they?” Kathryn’s eyes switch from Latin to Standard, noticing the similarities.

Marie stops singing to grin and roll her eyes. “And here I’d thought you’d studied linguistics?”

“Exolinguistics,” Kathryn corrects her, “why?”

“Well, because fifty percent of English is Latin, give or take.” 

“Thanks, Smarty,” Kathryn lightly slaps her wife’s – good God, her wife’s! – thigh, chuckling quietly at how Marie goes on humming, captured by the music. “Let me guess – you sang this before, right?”

Marie breaks off again, her smile somewhere between pride and memory. “Why, of course. The Carmina Burana are a masterpiece, and I’m proud to have performed them once. Ellie, too.”

“Once? And you still remember the lyrics?”

“When they’re so lovely? When standing on a stage with more than three hundred musicians and singers has been the highpoint of my choir career? Of course I do.” Then Marie grins when cymbals and strings lead in the next song, the one where the voices didn’t come from speakers, but from six children in a half-circle. “That one is sweet,” she goes on, humming again on the slow, low bits. Kathryn, meanwhile, remembers walking up to the aisle to this. “Hey, don’t cry, love.” She touches Kathryn’s cheek. “You don’t even know what Ellie sang next, and why it fitted so well.”

“Hm?”

“Stands a girl,” Marie provides while the PADD plays the song. “In a red tunic, and if you’d grasp it, the tunic would rustle.” She grins again. “Bear with it, love, the best part’s yet to come. Stands a girl,” she goes on, grin changing to a smile, “like a little rose; her face radiant, her mouth blooming.” Then she joins the wordless part, her alto winding around the notes smoothly. “Kathryn, really. Don’t cry for this. It’s-”

“It’s only… you started singing next, and…” Kathryn tries, she really does.

So warm, that smile. So true, that voice. Just like this morning, and just as impossible to turn away from these eyes. “God…” Kathryn breathes when the song ends. “What… what does it say?”

Marie’s smile never wavers. Deepens, if at all possible, as does her voice. “Come, oh come, companion mine, I long so hard for thee,” she recites softly. “Sweet, rose-colored mouth, come, and make me well.” Then her voice changes, “Ellie must have edited it a bit, because usually it doesn’t start on a flute solo, but it made me realize what she planned, so I guess I’ll forgive her. I still don’t believe how elaborate this all was, you know.” Kathryn quite agrees, but then, when Marie taps something into the PADD and the flute rings out again, she shakes her head, realizing what her wife wants her to do before Marie says the words. “Come, sing with me. It’s easy, just keep repeating the melody and I’ll do the harmony.”

“I…”

“Please?” How could she ever say no, even if the song _is_ at the upper end of what Kathryn feels comfortable singing. “I knew it,” Marie exults, a heartbeat after they finish. “We fit.”

“Well, you did marry me. You must have assumed something along those lines.” Dry as you please, despite the wetness on Kathryn’s cheeks. 

“So I did.”

“So why did you laugh when Chakotay started to speak, anyway?”

Thinking of this has Marie laugh again, and she stretches out her arms in a passable imitation of Chakotay’s gesture. “Friends!” Then her eyes grow wicked. “Romans! Countrymen!” 

“God, you’re impossible,” Kathryn laughs along, shaking her head. Grows serious again, or, rather, differently emotional. “And then you sang again.”

“So I did.” Marie repeats, smile growing wider. She taps the PADD to re-start the playback of the sweetest song of them all, keeping the display turned away from Kathryn quite on purpose. 

“What-” Kathryn starts as the song ends, but Marie’s already going there.

“In the scales of my doubting mind,” she recites, something deep and unreadable in her eyes, “there surge, against each other, lascivious love and modesty. But I,” and now her eyes are radiant, suddenly, “choose what I see, and bow my neck to the yoke; to the sweet, sweet yoke I, after all, submit.”

“A yoke? That doesn’t sound-” again, Marie interrupts her, touching a finger to Kathryn’s lips.

“Two beings pulling together in the same direction? I’ve heard worse.” Marie’s smile breaks out again at the look on Kathryn’s face. 

“Well, if you put it like this…” 

“I do.” 

They share another kiss – _I’m kissing my wife_. It feels so new, so wonderfully strange. Then Kathryn pulls away again, thinking of something else. “That song of Seven’s-”

Marie’s jaw drops. “Seven?!” She collects it quickly, though. “Should’ve known. Couldn’t have been Ellie, she can’t reach that high.” She shakes her head reverentially. “I thought it was a recording, but… _Seven_. Wow.”

“Well, yes, but what was it she sang? You smiled, I could feel it.”

Marie’s eyes dance, but not with laughter. “An additional wedding vow, so to speak. The ultimate, if you will. ‘Dulcissima’ is easy, no?”

Strange to think that their stay in Italy is not even half a year behind them. “The sweetest?”

“Well, _my_ sweetest, in this case, I should say. ‘Totam tibi subdo me’,” and again, Marie’s voice is incredibly gentle, “means ‘completely, to thee, I give myself.’” 

Marie says them so lightly, but these words are so big, so all-encompassing – marriage has never been a thing Kathryn took lightly, not when she promised herself to Justin, not when she answered Mark’s proposal. And even if, after a moment’s hesitation, pen hovering above paper, her decision to join Marie’s vow of ‘no restrictions, no conditions, no bounds’ had been, if not easy, then at least wholehearted…

“Don’t cry, love,” Marie repeats, her arms sliding around Kathryn’s shoulders, but her own voice is thick. “Don’t cry, now.”


	11. Coda (a mother’s thoughts)

They are good together. Not that I’d seen it at first. My daughter with her poise, her inner fire, her quiet, unparalleled determination – Marie with her brash, exuberant laugh that comes so easy, her goofy sense of humor, her blatant irreverence. Had I met Marie without knowing what I knew by then, I’d never have thought of her as a good match for my eldest, and not just because of the obvious – age. Profession. Heck, _gender_.

But.

When my daughter sent me that message, her face all radiant, and attached that picture – I wouldn’t believe she’d ever close her eyes so readily, in such a public place – when I saw both, I knew my Kathryn had found someone who’d touched her heart in the right way, and, now that I know Marie better, I can see how diligently she does. The right way. Not necessarily an easy way – oh, but they’re well matched for stubbornness, those two are. Marie’s is a different kind of stubborn, a counselor’s one – I’ve often wondered whether it comes first, and then the training, or the other way round. Insidiously kind, mindful and persistent, Marie’s solicitousness has sneaked behind my daughter’s barriers. Whatever Marie does, however she does it, she has my Katie open up again. Finally.

Twenty years. 

Two decades have passed since my Edward and Kathryn’s Justin died. Since my daughter lost father and fiancé, since I lost husband and prospective son-in-law. Since we both lost the men we’d loved most. 

I’ll always love both my daughters for their fierceness, but that day, Kathryn turned it all inwards. I saw how she grieved, and it is my greatest sorrow, my bitterest regret, that, laden with my own heartache, I couldn’t find strength enough to help Kathryn in hers. It took Phoebe to shake her out of it, shake both of us, really. And it took years for all of us to get over that particular pain, too. Sometimes, in my heart of hearts, I don’t think I’m any more forgiving of myself than my daughter is. Oh, Kathryn put on the good face, sure enough, accepted counseling, rose through the ranks with all the examinations and evaluations that go with it, but you can’t fool a mother. I knew how she hurt, and what it did to her. 

I knew she found comfort with Marc, found an outside strength in him, strength which she could use, did use, to draw herself up again. Marc Johnson holds a very special place in this mother’s heart for what he did for my daughter, even as I hoped she’d realize, someday, that theirs wasn’t a love to last. It was a love to help her regain her own strength, and that’s something all of us can only wish for in situations like that, but I was pretty sure it wouldn’t suffice, in the end, for my daughter’s heart _and_ mind. Cruel as it might sound, I prayed that she wouldn’t settle for it. A mother wants the best for her child; and, good and helpful as it was, Marc’s love wasn’t. I don’t know if Marie’s is, yet, but I’ve never, ever seen my daughter more radiant than today, and I guess that counts for something.

Kathryn has always been hard on herself, always driven, always determined. Pushy, much more so than Phoebe, or I for that matter, have ever been. No, Kathryn gets it from her father, and when I’d tried to intervene, tried to get Edward to leave off her for a while, he’d only laughed and told me she’d fly far, one day, his Goldenbird.

Lord Almighty, but how his words have come true. 

In a way, her brilliance did need his pushing, just as her innate abilities, her instincts needed training. Seeing how she soaked it all up, how she soared through most of her lessons, worked her way through others, how she succeeded in everything she set her considerable mind to – how can a mother not be proud? 

How can a mother’s heart not break, knowing what her daughter’s going through?

Oh, she never said anything, but I know my Katie well enough. Keeps things to herself, hides them behind this or that or the other expressionless expression, and thinks she’s got me fooled after all. But I’ve had the privileged experience of watching two Janeways employ that tactic. Edward called this his captain’s mask, and I’d seen him slip it on and off so often that I know the thing’s as real as if it had strings and eyeholes. But at least Edward had had a home to come to, and someone to tease, threaten, or plain tell him to take it off. 

Kathryn saw that mask on her father’s face same as I did, whenever he brought home more of his work than just the uniform. She learned to see it for what it was, learned to see how it helped him be a loving, challenging father at times and a stern and demanding admiral at others. And she learned it well; too well. I remember, to this day, the mixture of pride and sorrow I felt when I saw her turn from daughter to officer the first time, saw that mask slide in place on her features, saw her father in it. Granted, along her way she needed it much, much more than my Edward ever did, but even so I don’t think… but I can’t, can I? Judge not, my own father always used to say – I have but an inkling of what Kathryn went through, and if clinging to that mask like she did was her tactic to accomplish her task, who am I to say it’s wrong? 

When I received the first message of hers, the one telling me she was alive, I could see her anguish well enough, hidden though she’d probably thought it had been. Knew from pauses, frowns, detachment. Knew, as a mother will, that she’d make it through in the end; ached, as a mother will, about what it must cost her. And I’d thought that, somewhere between leaving for the Badlands and sending that message, she’d forgotten how to take that wretched mask off.

Personal isn’t the same as important, my daughter told me, one night a few weeks ago, when only the two of us were left in the living room. She’d been cradling a glass of wine, rolling the stem in her hand and watching the tears on the inside of the glass endlessly rejoin the pool of liquid in the bottom. Personal isn’t the same as important. How it had chilled me to hear it, delivered so matter-of-factly, with nothing but a small, apologetic smile. Chilled me to realize she hadn’t forgotten at all, but had _decided_ , quite deliberately, to be The Captain for her crew’s sake. To sacrifice person to duty. For that decision alone, she deserves every medal, honor, or rank bar Starfleet gave her, in my – admittedly biased – opinion. And still it has been, by far, too high a price.

Interesting, that Marie picked up on that sacrifice so easily, too. It’d been what had startled me most, in her first message to me. Perceptive, but then I guess she’s got plenty of reason for that. I think it’s why they work so well. I’d never dreamed that irreverent would do the trick with Kathryn, but they did meet under circumstances where clinging to a captain’s mask would have been more than useless, and I guess Marie never let Kathryn put it back on unless The Captain was called for. Good on her, too. 

You’d think this relationship was unbalanced, Marie the Giver, Kathryn the Taker. I did, for a while, but it’s not that easy – things rarely are, and I’m glad I’ve learned better, even though the situation that’s made me see has been a hard one, for both of them. A couple of weeks ago, we’d all been sitting on the porch when Marie had come back from helping the Schneider’s make hay, or jam, or something like that – oh, but she likes the farm work, and how my daughters tease her for it. Grinning and grimy, she’d walked straight past us and up, to take a well-deserved and much-needed shower. A few seconds later, Unre had looked up sharply, blanching. Phoebe had grasped his hand instantly, afraid something was wrong with the kids. 

It hadn’t been. Not with the kids, at least. He’d run up the stairs, pulling Kathryn behind him, the rest of us hard on their heels. We’d found Marie frozen in the bathroom, locked into immobility by a spider in the tub. I’d been about to shrug it off, but a look into Kathryn’s and Unre’s faces had told me that whatever was happening was more than a simple case of arachnophobia. ‘A glass’, Marie had said, tight as a bowstring, ‘and something to slide beneath it’. And then, while Phoebe had run for both, Marie had started talking to the goddamn critter, saying if it’d stay calm and she’d stay calm, they both might make it. It had, and she had, and they had. And after she’d brought the spider to the bushes off the porch, she’d sat down on the steps and started trembling so much that you’d felt it through the blessed floorboards. 

Kathryn had been shaken, too, but she’d been there, holding, soothing, for as long as it took Marie to calm down again. I’d watched all three of them to understand what was happening, and had actually gathered more from my son-in-law’s face than from either of the girls. He’d been awed, at what he’d sensed from them, and it takes something to awe a Betazoid, emotion-wise. They still haven’t explained, really, but seeing it play out like it had had told me much about them, nevertheless. Seeing my daughter able and ready to give so much had soothed me, too. 

So that’s why, when that idea had struck me, and an off-hand remark of my younger daughter had reinforced it, I’d approached Marie’s best friend – such a remarkable girl, and yet again so different – and Kathryn’s, that darkly handsome Maquis captain that has Biddie Marlman swoon whenever she sees his picture in the news, the daft old broom. They’d taken to the idea like moths to a flame, especially to the stealth aspect, as Chakotay had called it, and we’d spend delicious hours planning it. And seeing it come together… 

Things have turned out well, I think.


End file.
